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THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



PLATT AND TODD, 

Printers, Courant Office, Haymarket, Sheffield. 



THE 



POETICAL REVIEW, 



SELECT SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETRY; 

ILLUSTRATED BY 

NUMEROUS AND ELEGANT CRITIQUES, &C. 

EXTRACTED FROM THE BEST REVIEWS AND MAGAZINES 

IN THE LANGUAGE, 

AND FROM THE WORKS OF THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS 

IN ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



EDITED BY HENRY KELVEY. 



Poetry is the highest branch of literature,— the highest effort of the 
human mind,— and it is that also in which England may proudly chal- 
lenge competition with the world— Quart. Rev. Oct. 1814. 



J. PEARCE, GIBRALTAR-STREET AND HIGH-STREET. 

MDCCCXX1X. 

c 



PREFACE. 



Nothing seems more easy than to make what is called a Selec- 
tion ; the labour is trifling, aud seems to require only an or- 
dinary share of common sense. Yet how comes it, that, from 
the Elegant Extracts downwards, we have not a good selection 
of poetry in the language ? This task, which invites by ap- 
parent facility, is found to be one of real difficulty, and to re- 
quire a very rare union of raste, judgment, and extensive read- 
ing."— Eclec. Rev. Oct. 1825. 



Though the Editor is not so vain as to suppose 
that he possesses that "rare union" of which the 
Reviewer speaks, yet he thinks it no presumption 
to "mingle with the multitude" of Compilers, 
and endeavour to produce a Selection that may 
obtain the approbation of the Lovers of Poetry. 
And that approbation he flatters himself he could 
have ensured had he had " ample room and verge 
enough" for the systematic arrangement of all 
the critiques and specimens that have been com- 



vi. PREFACE. 

piled ; but being confined, not from choice, to a 
single volume, he has been compelled to give 
rather an unconnected series of extracts from the 
principal poets, and must, therefore, submit the 
present volume with the greater deference to the 
admirers of poetry. 

Shakespear is the only poet from whom the 
Editor has taken any dramatic extracts, but could 
he have accomplished bis original design he 
would have given numerous specimens from all 
the elder dramatic poets — from Marlowe, whose 
" thoughts burn within him like a furnace with 
bickering flames,"* to Shirley, " the last of that 
bright line of poets whose glory has run thus far 
into the future, and must last as long as passion, 
and profound thought, and fancy, and imagina- 
tion, and wit, shall continue to be honoured."f 
Nor would the illustrious names from Otway to 
Milman have been forgotten. — Had a plan, so 
extensive as originally intended, been adopted, 
the Editor would have given, from the larger 
poems of the British Bards, a regular and conse- 
cutive series of specimens, that would have formed 
an epitome of the poem from which they had been 
selected. He would, for instance, have taken the 
tragedy of Macbeth, and have anatomized it, and 
given the extracts and critiques in such order 

' Huzlttt. t Edinburgh Review. 



PREFACE. vii. 

that the plot would have been fully developed. 
The same plan would have been adopted with 
Paradise Lost, and with other poems. At present 
the selection " has been made"'' with very little 
regard to that order. From Chaucer, he has se- 
lected only from " The Prologue to the Canter- 
bury Tales." He has given but two specimens 
from Spenser, " Pride and her Attendants," and 
" The Allegory of Despair." He has not taken 
from a tithe of Shakespear's Dramas, and the ex- 
tracts are " few and far between." From Para- 
dise Lost, specimens have been taken only from 
the first six books : — and Cowley, Dry den, Pope, 
&c. have equally and unavoidably shared the 
same fate. But should the Poetical Review meet 
with approbation, it will be an inducement to en- 
large a future edition with a greater number of 
extracts from the poets already given, and also 
to give another volume that shall contain speci- 
mens of dramatic poetry from the Elizabethan 
age to the present, including, too, the names of 
Gower, Lydgate, Douglas, &c. of "the olden 
time ;" Parnell, Gay, Shenstone, &c. of the last 
century; and Montgomery, Moore, Campbell, 
Southey, Wordsworth, &c. of the present period. 

The Editor's object has not been to select such 
specimens, in particular, as were generally un- 
known, or, rather, unnoticed. He has, without 



via PREFACE. 

reserve, taken what he considered the best pieces, 
whether unknown or unnoticed, whether popular 
or not popular, for the finest poetry is frequently 
unpopular ; — " pure poetry is in fact a mystery 
to the million, and may, without any impeach- 
ment of its excellence, be unintelligible to the 
sciolist in belles lettres and the drawing-room 
critic, or fail to amuse or strike the superficial 
multitude."* But while the specimens have 
been thus freely taken, the compilation has been 
attended with considerable difficulty, for, when 
selecting, the Editor frequently found himself in 
a " wilderness of sweets" — specimens presented 
themselves in abundance, and that very abun- 
dance was one cause of the difficulty, for, " to 
choose the best among many good, is," as Dr. 
Johnson observes, " one of the most hazardous 
attempts of criticism." And a writer in Black- 
wood's Magazine for May, 1820, judiciously re- 
marks, that " there is something exquisitely dis- 
couraging in the conclusions to which a calm re- 
view of the effects of contemporary criticism in 
England must lead every man of tolerably sound 
judgment ; and in regard to no department of 
literary exertions are these necessary conclusions 
so discouraging as in that of the criticism of po- 
etry." When along with these difficulties, it is 
considered that, after having rifled the poetical 

* British Review. 



PREFACE. ix. 

treasuries of Great Britain, the Editor is " coop'd 
in" and confined to the compass of one small 
volume, he hopes he may plead forgiveness in ex- 
tenuation of failure, and adopt the words of old 
Tubervile, 



" Accept my paynes, allow me thankes, 

If 1 deserue the same ; 
If not, yet lette not meaning well 

Be payde with checke and blame." 



Care has been taken not to admit any piece of 
an immoral tendency. Expressions that would 
not be endured at the present day, were not only 
tolerated, but even admired, by our ancestors. It 
is true, as Mr. Lewis observes in his edition of 
Chaucer, that " the plain speaking of our ances- 
tors, however it may oifend delicacy, is not calcu- 
lated to excite passion. Their homely phrase is 
infinitely less injurious to the morals of society 
than the polished sentences of the modern novel 
writer, impregnated as they too often are with 
sentiments as false as they are pernicious." But 
Mrs. Montagu, in her " Essay on the Writings 
and Genius of Shakespear," beautifully and justly 
remarks, that " there are delicacies of decorum in 
one age unknown to another age, but whatever 
is immoral is equally blamable in all ages, and 
every approach to obscenity is an offence for 



x. PREFACE. 

which wit cannot atone, nor the barbarity or the 
corruption of the times excuse." The Editor, 
therefore, pleads to be excused for having occa- 
sionally omitted a line or a couplet which some- 
times marred the beauty of the whole specimen, 
and hopes that no extract will be found that " a 
father may not read to his daughter — or a son to 
his mother."* 

Sheffield, Nov. 11, 1829. 



British Review. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

On Poetry— i/a Witt 1 

On the Advantages of Criticism— Lord Karnes 5 

On the Criticism of Poetry — Edin. Rev. 8 

On Poetry as a Luxury — Edin. Rev. .. . ... .. .... 10 

On the Immortality of Poets— Eclec. Rev. . . «. 12 

On the Despotism of the Imagination over uncultivated minds— Edin. 

Rev. .. .... .... .. .... 13 

Poetry Defined — Montgomery .... . . .... 16 

Anonymous. 

Campbell. 
The Soul's Errand .... 35 

Burns, Robert. 

On Burns's Yotivy—Lauerwinkel .... 246 

On the Character of Burns — Blackwood 's Mag . . 247 

To a Mountain Daisy ..248 

Dr. Currie. 
To a Mouse 250 

Dr. Currie— G. Burns— Hazittt. 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 251 

Epistle to Davie Sillar, a Brother Poet 256 

Dr. Currie. — G. Burns. 
The Twa Dogs 259 

Campbell— Lockhart . 
To Mary in Heaven 265 

Lockhart, 

Highland Mary 267 

On Burns's Songs— Allan Cunningham 269 

Bonnie Jean 270 

O were Ion Parnassus Hill . . .... 272 

Fair Eliza 272 

Groves o' sweet myrtle 273 

Fare thee Weel . . 273 

Syme. — Edin. Rev. 

Bruce's Address to his Army 274 

John Anderson mv Jo .. 276 



CONTENTS. 



Byron, George Gordon, Lord 

On the Private Life of Authors — Blackwood's Mag. 317 

On the Personal Character of Lord Byron — London Mag 318 

Lord Byron's Poetical Character — Blackwood's Mag. _ . . . . 320 

Midnight Scene at the Siege of Corinth .. .. .. 321 

The Frenzy of Love .. .. .. .. .. ..324 

On the Misanthropy of Lord Byron's Heroes — Quart. Rev 326 

Character of Conrad . . ... . . . . 327 

Ambition .. .. .... ..329 

Albuera . . . . . . 330 

Brit. Rev. 

"Waterloo . . . . . . . . . . 332 

Quart. Rev. 
Reflections by the Lake of Geneva .... .. 330 

Brit. Rev. 
Death of the Princess Charlotte . . 339 

Lord Byron. 
Description of an Italian Evening .. 342 

Brit. Rev. 

Greece . . . . .'. . . . . . . . . 343 

The Greek Bard's Song . . . . . . . . . . 345 

The Destruction of the Assyrians 348 

Blackwood's Mag. 
Lines . . . . . . . . . . . . 348 



Carew, Thomas. 

Carew's Poetical Character — Campbell .. . . .. 110 

Persuasions to Love ..111 

Song. — Ask me no more ., .... .. ..112 

Chaucer, Geoffrey. 

On Chaucer's Poetry— Hazlitt .. .. .. ..18 

On Chaucer's Metres— Panoramic Miscellany .. .. ..19 

T. Warton. 
The Prioress . . . . . . . . . . 20 

T. Warton. 
The Monk .. .... 23 

Dry den. 

The Friar . . . . 24 

The Parson .... 27 

T. Warton. 
The Frankelein .. ... .. .. .. ..28 

T. Warton. 
The Reve .. .. .... .. ..30 

T. Warton. 

TheSompnour .. .. .. ..31 

The Pardoner .. .. .. .. .. ..33 

The Miller ..34 

Collins, William. 

Collins's Poetical Character— Hazlitt .. .. ..217 

Ode to Evening .. .. .. .. .. ..218 

Ode to Fear — .. 219 

Dr. Lang home. 

Ode— On the Passions .. .. .. .. ..221 



CONTENTS. xiii. 

PAGE. 
Anon. 
Ode— On the Poetical Character . . 224 

Cowley, Abraham. 

Cowley's Poetical Character — Montgomery 119 

Neele. 

Ode on Liberty 120 

Dr. Aikin — Dr. Johnsen. 
The Chronicle .... .... .... .... ....123 

Cowper, William. 

On Cowper's Poetry — Edin. Rev. .... .... 277 

On Cowper as a Satirist— Blackwood's Mag 279 

On the Personal Character of Cowper — Edin. Rev 280 

On the Morality of Cowper's Poetry — Quar. Rev .... 281 

Campbell. 
The Sophist . . .... .... .... .... 282 

Character of Dubious .... .... , 283 

Nuisances of Colloquial Intercourse .. 284 

Bashfulness .. .. .. ., .... 286 

Montgomery. 
The Wonders of Creation . . . . . . . . . . 287 

Remarks on the Task— Montgomery 288 

Campbell. 
Country Scene Described .. .. .. .. .. 289 

London .. .. .. .. .. ., .. 290 

Reflectionson War and Slavery 292 

Montgomery. 

The Philosophy that stops at Secondary Causes reproved 293 

A Mistake concerning the Course of Nature corrected . . . . 294 

Apostrophe to England .. .. .. .. .. 296 

Campbell 
Domestic Happiness 296 

Montgomery. 

The Effect of Bells heard at a distance 299 

Liberty 301 

The Christian Freeman 302 

Acquaintance with God necessary to the enjoyment of His works. . 304 
On Cowper's Minor Poems — Montgomery 306 

Lady Hesketh — Johnstone — Dr. Aikin. 
To Mary 307 

Quarterly Review — Cowper. 
On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 309 

Platts. 
Verses supposed to have been written by Alexander Selkirk .. ..313 

Drummond, William, of Hawthomden. 

On the Sonnet— Sismondi 115 

Hazlitt. 

Sounet— Slide soft, fair Forth 116 

Sonnet — Thrice happy he .... .... 116 

Dr. Drake. 

Sonnet— Trust not, sweet soul 117 

Sonnet— Ah ! burning thoughts 117 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Dryden, John. 

Dryden's Poetical Character— Edin. Rev 176 

Sir Walter Scott. 
Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Killegrew 176 

Dr. Aikin—Dr. Jamieson — Dr. Warton. 
Alexander's Feast 1S2 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

Goldsmith's Poetical Character— Campbell 24? 

The Village Curate 243 

The Country Schoolmaster 244 

The Village Ale-house 245 

Gray, Thomas. 
Dr. Aikin. 
Elegy written in a Country Church yard 237 

Herrick, Robert. 

On Herrick's Poetry— Univer. Mag 108 

Campbell. 
-Song— Gather the rose-buds .. 108 

Hazlitt. 
The Captive Bee .. .. .... .. .. ..109 

Milton, John. 

On Epic Poetry— Dr. Johnson .... 126 

Milton's Poetical Character — Dr. Charming . . .. •• 129 

On the Composition of Paradise Lost — Blackwood's Mag 130 

The Fall of Satan .. .. .. ..131 

Hazlitt. 

Conference of Satan and Beelzebub 131 

On the Agency of Supernatural Beings — Edin. Rev 134 

Satan rears his Standard and comforts his Compeers with the hope 

of regaining Heaven .. .. .. •• 137 

Eclectic Review. 
The Almighty's Speech to his Son, who had offered himself a Ran- 
som for Mau .. .. . .. 140 

Song of the Angels after the Almighty's Speech .... .. 142 

Dr. Hawker. 
Satan's Address to the Sun .. .. .. .. .. 144 

Dr. Channing. 
Description of Paradise 147 

Dr. Hawker. 

Conjugal Felicity .. .. .. .. 152 

Conversation of Adam and Eve on retiring to rest 155 

Addison. 
Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn .... 158 

Addison. 
Messiah routs the Satanic Hosts 160 

Edinburgh Review — Sir William Jones. 

L'Allegro " .. .... 164 

On Melancholy— H. K. White .. 169 

1 1 Penseroso .. . . . . . . . 170 

Montgomery. 
Sonnet — On his own blindness .... 175 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Pope, Alexander. 

Pope's Poetical Character— Hazlilt .. 187 

On the Order of Nature ..188 

On LoH Bolinbroke's Influence over Pope— Edin. Rev 190 

On Happiness 192 

Dr. Warton. 
Sir Balaam 194 

Dr Warton. — Montgomery. 
The Messiah— A Sacred Eclogue . . . . 1 95 

Dr. Warton. 
The Dying Christian to his Soul 198 

Qoarles, Francis. 

Quarles's Poetical Character— Montgomery 112 

Conquer Thyself 113 

Vain Boasting . .... .... 114 

Shakespear, William. 

Shakespear's Poetical Character — Hazlitt 5g 

On the Fame of Shakespear — H. Neele 59 

Isabella pleading for her brother Ciaudio 61 

Mercy .... .... .... 63 

Mrs. Griffith. 
Love Scene between Silvius and Phoebe .... .. .. ..64 

On Epic and Dramatic Poetry— H. Neele 07 

. Hazlitt. 
Macbeth, at theimportunity of his Lady, resolvesto murder Duncan 69 
The Murder of Duncan 72 

Lord Karnes. 
Macduff informed of the murder of his Wife and Children 74 

Cumberland. 
Lady Macbeth walking in her sleep 77 

Holinshed. 
Macbeth informed of the approach of the English Army .. .. 79 
The King and Queen's Remonstrance with Hamlet 83 

H. Neele 

The Ghost'sappearance to Horatio .... .. 85 

The Ghost incites Hamlet to revenge his murder .. 89 

Hume — Mrs. Montagu. 
Heury IV. demands the Prisoners of Hotspur .. 91 

Henry. 
The Death of Humphrey Duke of Gloucester 97 

Turner. 
The Death of Cardinal Beaufort .. .. ]nn 

Lingard — Cumberland. 
Tticbard III. informed of Richmond's approach to claim the Ciown 102 

On Shakespear's Poems— Blackwood's Mag. 106 

Sonnet — When in disgrace with fortune .. .. .... |67 

Sonnet— Some glory in their birth .. .. .. 107 

Sonnet — Let me not to the marriage .... .. .. ,. 107 

Smart, Christopher. 
Montgomery. 
David .. .. .... .. .. .. ..235 



CONTENTS. 



Spenser, Edmund. 

On Spenser's Poeiry—Hazlitt .... . . . . 38 

On the Spenserian Stanza— Quart. Rev 39 

Pride and her Attendants .. .. .. .. ..66 

Pride .. .. .. .. ..40 

The 1st. Attendant — Idleness .... .. .. .... 41 

2nd Gluttony .. .. 42 

3rd Lechery .. .... .. .... 43 

4th Avarice .... .... .. ..44 

5th Envy .... .... .... ..44 

6th Wrath 45 

Dr- Aikin. 

The Allegory of Despair .... .... .. • 46 

The Knight flying from Despair .. 47 

Despair in his Cave .... .. .. 51 

T. Warton. 
The Knight receiving the Dagger .... .... 54 

Thomson, James 

Thomson's Poetical Character — Dr. Johnson .... 200 

Vernal Showers .... .. .. 201 

Influence of Spring on Birds 202 

Storm of Thunder and Lightning, .... .... ....204 

On Thomson's Versification— H. Neele ..T. 205 

First Approach of Winter .. .. .. .. .. 207 

The Driving of the Snows, and a Man perishing in the Storm .... 209 

Reflections on a Future State .... .... 210 

Montgomery . 
Hymn on a Review of the Seasons .... .... ....21! 

Montgomery. 
Rule Britannia 214 

Wither, George. 
Percy. 
The Shepherd's Rjsolution .. 118 

Young, Edward. 

Remarks on the Night Thoughts— Campbell .. 227 

Picture of a Good Man 228 

Reflections on the Starry Heavens 230 

The Conflagration 233 



ON THE ADVANTAGES OF CRITICISM. 

Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when 
studied as a rational science. In the first place, a 
thorough acquaintance with the principles of the fine 
arts, redoubles the pleasure we derive from them. To 
the man who resigns himself to feeling without inter- 
posing any judgment, poetry, music, and painting 
are mere pastime. In the prime of life, indeed, they 
are delightful, being supported by the force of novelty, 
and the heat of the imagination ; but in time they lose 
their relish, and are generally neglected in the maturity 
of life, which disposes to more serious and more impor- 
tant occupations. To those who deal in criticism as a 
regular science, governed by just principles, and giving 
scope to judgment as well as to fancy, the fine arts 
are a favourite entertainment ; and in old age main- 
tain that relish which they produce in the morning 
of life. 

In the next place, a philosophical inquiry into the 
principles of the fine arts, inures the reflecting mind 
to the most enticing sort of logic : the practice of rea- 
soning upon subjects so agreeable tends to a habit; and 
a habit, strengthening the reasoning faculties, prepares 
the mind for entering into subjects more intricate and 
abstract. To have, in that respect, a just conception 
of the importance of criticism, we need but reflect 
upon the ordinary method of education ; which, after 
some years spent in acquiring languages, hurries us, 
without the least preparatory discipline, into the most 
profound philosophy. A more effectual method to 



alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is be- 
yond the reach of invention ; and accordingly, with 
respect to such speculations, our youth generally con- 
tract a sort of hobgoblin terror, seldom, if ever, sub- 
dued. Those who apply to the arts, are trained in 
a very different manner ; they are led, step by step, 
from the easier parts of the operation, to what are more 
difficult ; and are not permitted to make a new mo- 
tion, till they are perfected in those which go before. 
Thus, the science of criticism may be considered as a 
middle link, connecting the different parts of educa- 
tion into a regular chain. This science furnisheth an 
inviting opportunity to exercise the judgment; we de- 
light to reason upon subjects that are equally pleasant 
and familiar ; we proceed gradually in the simpler to 
the more involved cases ; and, in a due course of dis- 
cipline, custom, which improves all our faculties, be- 
stows acuteness on that of reason, sufficient to un- 
ravel all the intricacies of philosophy. 

Nor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings 
employed on the fine arts are of the same kind with 
those which regulate our conduct. Mathematical and 
metaphysical reasonings have no tendency to im- 
prove our knowledge of man, nor are they applicable 
to the common affairs of life ; but a just taste of the 
fine arts, derived from rational principles, furnishes 
elegant subjects for conversation, and prepares us for 
acting in the social state with dignity and propriety. 

The science of rational criticism tends to improve 
the heart no less than understanding. It tends, in 
the first place, to moderate the selfish affections : by 



sweetening and harmonizing the temper, it is a strong 
antidote to the turbulence of passion, and violence of 
pursuit; it procures to a man so much mental enjoy- 
ment, that, in order to be occupied, he is not tempted 
to deliver up his youth to hunting, gaming, drinking, 
nor his middle age to ambition ; nor his old age to 
avarice. Pride and envy, two disgustful passions, 
find in the constitution no enemy more formidable 
than a delicate and discerning taste ; the man upon 
whom nature and culture have bestowed this blessing, 
delights in the virtuous dispositions and actions of 
others ; he loves to cherish them, and to publish them 
to the world ; faults and failings it is true, are to him 
no less obvious ; but these he avoids, or removes out 
of sight, because they give him pain. On the other 
hand, a man void of taste, upon whom even striking 
beauties make but a faint impression, indulges pride 
or envy without control, and loves to brood over errors 
and blemishes. In a word, there are other passions 
that, upon occasion, may disturb peace of society more 
than those mentioned ; but not another passion is so 
unwearied an antagonist to the sweets of social inter- 
course. 

In the next place, delicacy of taste tends no less to 
invigorate the social affections, than to moderate those 
that are selfish. To be convinced of that tendency 
we need only reflect, that delicacy of taste necessarily 
heightens our feeling of pain and pleasure ; and of 
course our sympathy, which is the capital branch of 
every social passion. Sympathy invites a communi- 
cation of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears ; such 



8 

exercise, soothing and satisfactory in itself, is neces- 
sarily productive of mutual good will and affection. 

One other advantage of rational criticism is reserved 
to the last place, being of all the most important ; 
which is, that it is a great support to morality. I in- 
sist on it with entire satisfaction, that no occupation 
attaches a man more to his duty, than that of cultivat- 
ing a taste in the fine arts : a just relish of what is 
beautiful, proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing 
or painting, in architecture or gardening, is a fine pre- 
paration for the same just relish of these qualities in 
character and behaviour. 

LORD KAMES. 



ON THE CRITICISM OF POETRY. 

In all the branches of physical and moral science 
which admit of perfect analysis, he who can resolve 
will be able to combine. But the analysis which cri- 
ticism can effect of poetry, is necessarily imperfect. 
One element must for ever elude its researches ; and 
that is the very element by which poetry is poetry. 
In the description of nature, for example, a judicious 
reader will easily detect an incongruous image. But 
he will find it impossible to explain in what consists 
the art of a writer, who, in a few words, brings some 
spot before him so vividly that he shall know it as if 
he had lived there from childhood ; while another, 
employing the same materials, the same verdure, the 
same water, and the same flowers, committing no 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



ON POETRY. 

Poetry is the language of the imagination and the 
passions. It relates to whatever gives immediate plea- 
sure or pain to the human mind. It comes home to 
the bosoms and businesses of men ; for nothing but 
what so comes home to them in the most general and 
intelligible shape, can be a subject for poetry. Poetry 
is the universal language which the heart holds with 
nature and itself. He who has a contempt for poetry, 
cannot have much respect for himself, or for anything 
else. It is not a mere frivolous accomplishment, (as 
some persons have been led to imagine,) the trifling 
amusement of a few idle readers or leisure hours — 
it has been the study and delight of mankind in all 
ages. Many people suppose that poetry is something 
to be found only in books, contained in lines of ten 
syllables, with like endings : but wherever there is a 
sense of beauty, or power, or harmony, as in the mo- 
tion of a wave of the sea, in the growth of a flower 



that " spreads its sweet leaves to the air, and dedicates 
its beauty to the sun," — there is poetry, in its birth. 
Poetry is not a branch of authorship : it is " the stuff 
of which our life is made." The rest is " mere obli- 
vion," a dead letter : for all that is worth remember- 
ing in life, is the poetry of it. Fear is poetry, hope 
is poetry, love is poetry, hatred is poetry ; contempt, 
jealousy, remorse, admiration, wonder, pity, despair, 
or madness, are all poetry. Poetry is that fine parti- 
cle within us, that expands, rarefies, refines, raises our 
whole being : without it " man's life is poor as beast's." 
Man is a poetical animal : and those of us who 
do not study the principles of poetry, act upon them 
all our lives, like Moliere's Bourgeois Gentilhomme, 
who had always spoken prose without knowing it. 
The child is a poet in fact, when he first plays at hide- 
and-seek, or repeats the story of Jack the Giant-killer ; 
the shepherd-boy is a poet, when he first crowns his 
mistress with a garland of flowers ; the countryman, 
when he stops to look at the rainbow ; the city-ap- 
prentice, when he gazes after the Lord Mayor's show ; 
the miser, when he hugs his gold ; the courtier, who 
builds his hopes upon a smile ; the savage, who paints 
his idol with blood ; the slave, who worships a tyrant, 
or a tyrant, who fancies himself a god ; — the vain, the 
ambitious, the proud, the choleric man, the hero and 
the coward, the beggar and the king, the rich and the 
poor, the young and the old, all live in a world of 
their own making ; and the poet does no more than 
describe what all others think and act. 

Poetry then is an imitation of nature, but the im- 



3 

agination and the passions are a part of man's nature. 
We shape things according to our wishes and fancies, 
without poetry ; but poetry is the most emphatical 
language that can be found for those creations of the 
mind *' which ecstacy is very cunning in." Neither 
a mere description of natural objects, nor a mere de- 
lineation of natural feelings, however distinct or forci- 
ble, constitutes the ultimate end and aim of poetry, 
without the heightenings of the imagination. The 
light of poetry is not only a direct, but also a reflected 
light, that while it shows us the object, throws a spark- 
ling radiance on all around it : the flame of the pas- 
sions, communicated to the imagination, reveals to 
us, as with a flash of lightning, the inmost recesses of 
thought and penetrates our whole being. Poetry 
represents forms chiefly as they suggest other forms ; 
feelings, as they suggest forms or other feelings. Poe- 
try pats a spirit of life and motion into the universe. 
It describes the flowing, not the fixed. It does not 
define the limits of sense, or analyze the distinctions 
of the understanding, but signifies the excess of the 
imagination beyond the actual or ordinary impression 
of any object or feeling. The poetical impression of 
any object is that uneasy, exquisite sense of beauty or 
power that cannot be contained within itself; that is 
impatient of all limit ; that (as flame bends to flame) 
strives to link itself to some image of kindred beauty 
or grandeur ; to enshrine itself, as it were, in the high- 
er forms of fancy, and to relieve the aching sense of 
pleasure by expressing it in the boldest manner, and 
by the most striking examples of the same quality in 



4 

other instances. Poetry, according to Lord Bacon, 
for this reason " has something divine in it, because 
it raises the mind and hurries it into sublimity, by 
conforming the shows of things to the desires of the 
soul, instead of subjecting the soul to exte rnalthings* 
as reason and history do." It is strictly the language 
of the imagination ; and the imagination is that faculty 
which represents objects, not as they are in them- 
selves, but as they are moulded by other thoughts and 
feelings, into an infinite variety of shapes and com- 
binations of power. This language is not the less true 
to nature, because it is false in point of fact; but so 
much the more true and natural, if it conveys the 
impression which the object under the influence of 
passion makes on the mind. Let an object, for in- 
stance, be presented to the senses in a state of agita- 
tion or fear — and the imagination will distort or 
magnify the object, and convert it into the likeness of 
whatever is most proper to encourage the fear. " Our 
eyes are made the fools" of other faculties. This is 
the universal law of the imagination — 

" That if it would but apprehend some joy, 
It comprehends some bringer of that joy : 
Or in the night imagining some fear, 
How easy is each bush suppos'd a bear !" 

HAZLITT. 



inaccuracy, introducing nothing which can be positive- 
ly pronounced superfluous, omitting nothing which 
can positively be pronounced necessary, shall produce 
no more effect than an advertisement of a capital resi- 
dence, and a desirable pleasure ground. To take an- 
other example, the great features of the character of 
Hotspur are obvious to the most superficial reader. We 
at once perceive that his courage is splendid, his thirst 
of glory intense, his animal spirits high, his temper 
careless, arbitrary, and petulant ; that he indulges his 
own humour without caring whose feelings he may 
wound, or whose enmity he may provoke, by his 
levity. Thus far criticism will go. But something is 
still wanting. A man might have all those qualities, 
and every other catalogue of the virtues and faults of 
Hotspur, and yet he would not be Hotspur. Almost 
every thing that we have said of him applies equally 
to Falconbridge. Yet, in the mouth of Falconbridge, 
most of his speeches seem out of place. In real life, 
this perpetually occurs. We are sensible of wide 
differences between men whom, if we were required 
to describe them, we should describe in almost the 
same terms. If we were attempting to draw elaborate 
characters of them, we should scarcely be able to 
point out any strong distinction ; yet we approach 
them with feelings altogether dissimilar. We can- 
* not conceive of them as using the expressions or 
the gestures of each other. Let us suppose that a 
zoologist should attempt to give an account of some 
animal, a porcupine for instance, to people who 
had never seen it. The porcupine, he might say, 
c 



10 

is of the genius mammalia, and the order glires. 
There are whiskers on its face ; it is two feet long ; 
it has four toes before, five behind, two fore-teeth, 
and eight grinders. Its body is covered with hair 
and quills. And when all this had been said, 
would any one of the auditors have formed a just 
idea of a porcupine ? Would any two of them 
have formed the same idea ? There might exist in- 
numerable races of animals, possessing all the charac- 
teristics which have been mentioned, yet altogether 
unlike to each other. What the description of our 
naturalist is to a real porcupine, the remarks of 
criticism are to the images of poetry. What 
it so imperfectly decomposes, it cannot perfectly re- 
construct. It is evidently as impossible to produce 
an Othello or a Macbeth by reversing an analytical 
process so defective, as it would be for an anatomist 
to form a living man out of the fragments of his dis- 
secting room. In both cases, the vital principle eludes 
the finest instruments, and vanishes in the very instant 
in which its seat is touched. 

From the Edinburgh Review, January 1829. 



ON POETRY, AS A LUXURY. 

There are certain gradations in society which require 
different employments. There are the rude, the civi- 
lized, and the luxurious or refined. The human mind 
in one state cannot digest what it is eager for in an- 
other. In rude society, the mechanic and agricul- 



11 

turist are the most important characters. Afterwards, 
the legislator and the moralist insist upon precedence ; 
and, finally, the poet is elevated into renown. If, 
after all, it be asked, what is the most important 
science ? the answer is probably, — all. It is not suf- 
ficient to say, in opposition to the claims of the poet, 
that the state of refinement is the most unnatural, or 
that poetry is a luxury and a delusion only, and con- 
sequently little better than vice. For luxury is bad 
only, in so far as it injures the moral constitution of 
a people. Poetry, perhaps, may be considered as a 
luxury — we shall not dispute about terms ; but so are 
all the products of all the arts and sciences. Our 
very houses are a great luxury, and all that they con- 
tain — and most of our food and our dress also. There 
is not a single comfort that we enjoy which is not 
liable to this imputation. We have all something 
beyond what absolute necessity requires : — 

" Our basest beggars 
Are in the poorest things superfluous." 

But shall we therefore abandon every luxury, every 
comfort ? There is, we think, at least as much of 
vice and folly, in spuming at the beneficence of 
nature, as in receiving the gifts which she bestows on 
us, readily, and using them with discretion. 

From the Edinburgh Review, January 1828. 



12 
ON THE IMMORTALITY OF POETS. 

There is nothing so difficult to obtain as an earthly 
immortality. — It is probably true that every man 
living desires distinction, and in some point or other 
so far excels his neighbours as to imagine himself en- 
titled, in this respect at least, to pre-eminence. This 
" fondness of fame, this avarice of air," differs rather 
in degree, than in kind, for that " longing after im- 
mortality" on earth, which is almost peculiar to 
heroes and authors. — It may, however, be accidental- 
ly observed, that heroes and authors do not aspire to 
precisely the same species of immortality ; — the first 
hope to be remembered for, the second by, their per- 
formances : the former expect to live in the writings 
of other men, the latter in their own. The poets, we 
suppose, are by far the most sanguine candidates 
for fame. Five hundred thousand millions of human 
beings have probably lived and died in this world 
since the creation. It would be idle to guess how 
many of these have been poets in their age, and 
expected to be poets through all succeeding gener- 
ations : it is certain there is but one Homer, — one 
Virgil, — one Horace, — one Shakspeare, — one Milton, 
surviving in verse to this day ; and these, with about 
three hundred names of secondary note, comprehend 
the poets of all times and all countries, who are still 
partially or generally admired, and who have obtain- 
ed only a poet of their infinite wish for universal re- 
nown. It is impossible to wish for what is evidently 
impossible to obtain ; but though the chance of five 



13 

hundred thousand millions to one is next impossi- 
ble, yet since it is not quite impossible, and as there 
is one Homer — one Virgil — one Horace, in that num- 
ber of human beings, — there may be another, — and 
" I may be He i" So reasons every poet, in whose 
breast is once kindled the flame that burns for im- 
mortality. It is a flame that eclipses, involves, and 
outlives every other. No feeling, no passion of our 
nature, is so early and exquisitely quickened, so deep- 
ly and intensely felt, so late and so reluctantly relin- 
quished. 

Eclectic Review, January, 1811. 



ON THE DESPOTISM OF THE IMAGINATION 
OVER UNCULTIVATED MINDS. 

Perhaps no person can be a poet, or even enjoy 
poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if 
anything which gives so much pleasure ought to be 
called unsoundness. By poetry we mean, not of 
course all writing in verse, nor even all good writing 
in verse. Our definition excludes many metrical 
compositions which, on other grounds, deserve the 
highest praise. By poetry we mean, the art of em- 
ploying words in such a manner as to produce an 
illusion on the imagination, the art of doing by means 
of words what the painter does by means of colours. 
Thus the greatest of poets has described it, in lines 
universally admired for the vigour and felicity of their 
diction, and still more valuable on account of the 

D 



14 

just notion which they convey of the art in which he 
excelled : 

"As imagi nation bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name." 

These are the fruits of the " fine frenzy" which he 
ascribes to the poet, — a fine frenzy doubtless, but still 
a frenzy. Truth indeed, is essential to poetry ; but 
it is the truth of madness. The reasonings are just ; 
but the premises are false. After the first supposi- 
tions have been made, every thing ought to be con- 
sistent ; but those first suppositions require a degree 
of credulity which almost amounts to a partial and 
temporary derangement of the intellect. Hence of all 
people children are the most imaginative. They 
abandon themselves without reserve to every illusion. 
Every image which is strongly presented to their 
mental eye produces on them the effect of reality. — 
No man, whatever his sensibility may be, is ever af- 
fected by Hamlet or Lear, as a little girl is affected 
by the story of poor Red Riding-hood. She knows 
that iy is all false, that wolves cannot speak, that there 
are no wolves in England. Yet in spite of her know- 
ledge she believes, she weeps, she trembles; she dares 
not go into a dark room lest she should feel the teeth 
of the monster at her throat. Such is the despotism 
of the imagination over uncultivated minds. 

In a rude state of society men are children with a 
greater variety of ideas. It is therefore in such a 



15 

state of society that we may expect to find the poeti- 
cal temperament in its highest perfection. In an en- 
lightened age there will be much intelligence, much 
science, much philosophy, abundance of just classifi- 
cation and subtle analysis, abundance of wit and elo- 
quence, abundance of verses and even of good ones, — 
but little poetry. Men will judge and compare ; but 
they will not create. They will talk about the old 
poets, and comment on them, and to a certain degree 
enjoy them. But they will scarcely be able to con- 
ceive the effect which poetry produced on their ruder 
ancestors, the agony, the extacy, the plenitude of be- 
lief. The Greek Rhapsodists, according to Plato, 
could not recite Homer without almost falling into 
convulsions. The Mohawk hardly feels the scalping- 
knife while he shouts his death-song. The power 
which the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exer- 
cised over their auditors seems to modern readers 
almost miraculous. Such feelings are very rare in a 
civilized community, and most rare among those who 
participate most in its improvements. They linger 
longest amongst the peasantry. 

Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, 
as a magic lantern produces an illusion on the eye of 
the body. And as the magic lantern acts best in a 
dark room, poetry effects its purpose most completely 
in a dark age. As the light of knowledge breaks in 
upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty be- 
come more and more definite, and the shades of pro- 
bability more and more distinct, the hues and linea- 
ments of the phantoms which it calls up grow fainter 
d2 



16 



and fainter. We cannot unite the incompatible ad- 
vantages of reality and deception, the clear discern- 
ment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. 
Edinburgh Review, August, 1825. 



POETRY DEFINED. 

Dr. Johnson says, " the essence of true poetry is in- 
vention ;" his own romance of Rasselas is a poem, on 
this vague principle. Poetry must be verse, and all 
the ingenuity of man cannot supply a better defini- 
tion. Every thing else that may be claimed as essen- 
tial to good poetry, is not peculiar to it, but may be 
associated, occasionally at least, with prose. Prose* 
on the other hand, cannot be changed into verse, 
without ceasing to be prose. It is true, according to 
common parlance, that poetry may be prosaic, that 
is, it may have the ordinary qualities of prose, though 
it be in metre ; and prose may be poetical, that is, it 
may be invested with all the ordinary qualities of 
poetry, except metre. There is reason, as well as 
usage, in the conventional simplicity which distin- 
guishes prose, and the conventional ornament which 
is allowed to verse; but gorgeous ornament is no 
more essential to verse, than naked simplicity to prose. 

J. MONTGOMERY. 



1)3 



18 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER, DIED 1400, AGED 72. 



ON CHAUCER'S POETRY. 

Chaucer speaks of what he wishes to describe with the accuracy, 
the discrimination of one who relates what has happened to him- 
self, or has had the best information from those who have been 
eye-witnesses of it. He dwells on the essential, or that which 
would be interesting to the persons really concerned : yet as he 
never omits any material circumstance, he is prolix from the 
number of points on which he touches, without being diffuse on 
any one ; and is sometimes tedious from the fidelity with which 
he adheres to his subject, as other writers are from the frequency 
of their digressions from it The chain of history is composed of 
a number of fine links closely connected together, and rivetted by 
a single blow. He is contented to find grace and beauty in truth. 
He exhibits for the most part the naked object, with little 
drapery thrown over it. His metaphors, which are few, are not 
for ornament, but use, and as like as possible to the things them- 
selves. He does not affect to show his po^er over the reader's 
mind, but the power which his subject has over his own. The 
readers of Chaucer's poetry feel more nearly what the persons he 
describes must have felt, than perhaps those of any other poet. 
His sentiments are not voluntary effusions of the poet's fancy, 
but founded on the natural impulses and habitual prejudices of 
the characters he has to represent. There is au inveteracy of 



CHAUCER. 19 

purpose, a sincerity of feeling, which never relaxes or grows vapid, 
iD whatever they do or say. There is no artificial, pompous dis- 
play, hut a strict parsimony of the poet's materials, like the rude 
simplicity of the age in which he lived. hazlitt. 



ON CHAUCER'S METRES. 

Though much has been said of the supposed imperfectuess of 
Chaucer's metres, and his imagined neglect of quantities aud?wm= 
her, patient analysis, guided by correct principles, and assisted by 
some research into the evidences of the customary and habitual 
pronunciation of our forefathers, will go far to prove, that these 
supposed deficiencies are rather in the misapprehensions and false 
systems of the modern reader, than in themselves. The seat of 
the pulsation, or heavy poise in dissyllabic and polysyllabic words, 
has, in some instances, been evidently shifted since the days of 
Shakespear,— and even since those of Milton; but to a much 
more extensive degree had such changes taken place, between the 
time of Chaucer, and that of our great dramatic bard. This alone 
would be sufficient to cause much embarrassment to the modern 
reader : but there is still a greater difficulty in the way of the due 
appreciation of the harmony of our elder poets, in the ascertaina- 
ble, but too little considered licence of the olden time of retaining 
or omitting the syllabic sound of the feminine or faint e, in the 
plural, and other inflections of the nouns, verbs, &c. : so that the 
same succession of letters, represented, indifferently, one or two 
syllables, and were so pronounced according to the satisfaction of 
the ear, or the convenience of organic action. Thus what is writ- 
ten strondes, shires, &c. would be pronounced either stron-des, or 
stronds ; shires, or shirs ; and goddes would be either god-des, or 
gods. So also sote (sweet), rote (root), would be either sot-e, or 
sote ; rot-e, or rote ; and seke, either seek-e, or seek, &c. Nor 
would it, perhaps, be difficult to elicit some general rules, even in- 



20 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

dependent of the necessities of the versification, relative to the 
circumstances under which the final vowel should, and under which 
it should not be syllabicated, — which would show that Chaucer was 
not quite so arbitrary in the discretionary assignment of the sylla- 
bic numbers in this particular, as would, at first blush, appear ; 
and, it is even more than probable, that so much licence, as he 
thus used for the convenience of his verse, was no more, and no 
other, than was familiar to the prose conversation of his day : and, 
certain it is, that we have contemporary authority of the most un- 
questionable kind, that our ancestors, even to the time of Henry 
VIII., were in the habit of indulging in a much more full and 
vowelative pronunciation, than is in the usage of the present day. 
Of a similar description, and of like importance, in ascertaining 
the measure and harmony of our elder poets, is the demonstrable 
fact, that several of our termiaative particles, — as the frequently 
occurring tion, for example, — were, heretofore, pretty generally, if 
not universally, pronounced as two full syllables, shi-on, &c. 
though now almost universally crushed into one — shon, shun, or 
even shin, or shn, &c. : a snuffling mutilation of our speech, evi- 
dently undreamt of, not only by Chaucer, but by Shakespear, and 
the poets who succeeded him, — as might be proved by innumera- 
ble references : — a mutilation which seems to have been introduced 
together with many other deteriorations of our speech, and of the 
genius of our versification and poetry, in compliment to the 
Frenchified taste of the Restoration Court. 

Panoramic Miscellany, June, 1826. 



THE PRIORESS. 

Chaucer's vein of humour, although conspicuous in the Canter- 
bury Tales, is chiefly displayed in the characters with which they 
are introduced. In these his knowledge of the world availed him 
n a peculiar degree, and enabled him to give such an accurate 



CHAUCER. 21 

picture of ancient manners, as no contemporary nation has trans 
mitted to posterity. It is here that we view the pursuits and em- 
ployments, the customs and diversions, of our ancestors, copied 
from the life, and represented with equal truth and spirit, by a 
judge of mankind, whose penetration qualified him to discern 
their foibles or discriminating peculiarities; and by an artist, who 
understands that proper selection of circumstances, and those pre- 
dominant characteristics, which form a finished portrait. The cha- 
racter of the Prioress is chiefly distinguished by an excess of deli- 
cacy and decorum, and an affectation of courtly accomplishments. 
She has even the false pity and sentimentality of many modern 
ladies. t. warton. 



Ther was also a nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hire smiling was ful simple and coy j 
Hire gretest othe n'as but by seint Loy j 
And she was cleped madame Eglentine. 
Ful wel she sange the service devine 5 

Eutuned in hire nose ful swetely ; 
And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly, 
After the scole of Stratford atte bo we, 
For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe, 
At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle; 10 

She lette no morsel from hire lippes falle, 
Ne wette hire fingers in hire sauce depe. 
Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, 
Thatte no droppe ne fell upon hire brest. 
In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest. lo 

Hire over lippe wiped she so clene, 



Line 2. Hire— The pronouns them, their, her, are written in Chaucer hem,hir, 
hire. 
3. N'as— was not. 

3. Seint Loy— So all the manuscripts have it, though Tyrwhitt and 

Chalmers have followed Urry, and written Eloy, thereby destroy- 
ing the metre. Othe ought to be pronounced as a dissyllable. — 
This saint in Latin is called Sanclus Eligius. — W. G.Lewis. 

4. Cleped— called. 

7. Fetisly — properly. 

10. Ytaught — taught. What the power of y, at the beginning of words, 
may have been originally, it is difficult now to determine. In 
Chaucer it does not appear to have any effect upon the sense of a 
word. 

12. Depe— dip. 

13. Kepe — take care. 

15. Lest— desire to please. 



22 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

That iu hire cuppe was no ferthiug sene 

Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught. 

Ful semely after hire mete she raught. 

And sikerly she Avas of grete disport, 20 

And ful plesant, and amiable of port, 

And peined hire to contrefeten chere 

Of court, and ben estatelich of mauere, 

And to ben holden digne of reverence. 

But for to speken of hire conscience, 25 

She was so charitable and so pitous, 
She wolde wepe if that she saw a mous 
Caughte in a trappe, if it were ded or bledde. 
Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 
With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel brede. 30 

But sore wept she if on of hem were dede, 
Or if men smote it with a yerde smert : 
And all was conscience and tendre herte. 



Ful semely hire wimple ypinched was ; 
Hire nose tretis •, hire eyen gray as glas ; 35 

Hire mouth ful smale, and therto soft and red ; 
But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. 
It was almost a spanne brode I trowe; 
For hardily she was not undergrowe. 
Ful fetise was hire cloke, as I was ware. 40 

Of smale corall aboute hire arm she bare 
A pair of bedes, gauded all with grene ; 
And theron heng a broche of gold ful shene, 
On whiche was first ywriten a crowned A, 
And after, Amor vincit omnia. 45 



Line 17. No ferthing— not the smallest spot. 

19. Raught— belched. 

20. Sikerly— surely. 

20. Disport— diversion. 

21. Port—behaviour. 

22. And peined hire, &c.— i.e. She took great pains to imitate the ap- 

pearance of court, and to be stately of carriage, and considered 

worthy of reverence. 
30. Waslel brede — bread of a finer sort. 
32. With a yerde smert — i. e. smartly with a staff. 

34. Wimple— a coveringfor the neck. 

35. Tretis— long and well proportioned. 

45. Amor vincit omnia— Love conquers all things. The whole passage 
descriptive of the prioress, but particularly the lines beginning 
" But for to speken of her conscience," are uncommonly beautiful. 
— W. G.Lewis. 



CHAUCER. 23 

THE MONK. 

The Monk is represented as more attentive to horses and hounds 
than to the rigorous and obsolete ordinances of Saint Benedict. 
Such are his ideas of secular pomp and pleasure, that he is even 
qualified to be an abbot. He is ambitious of appearing a conspi- 
cuous and stately figure on horseback : a circumstance represented 
with great elegance. The gallantry of his riding dress, and genial 
aspect, is painted in lively colours. — The Friar is equally fond of 
diversion and good living; but the poverty of his establishment 
obliges him to travel about the country, and to pursue various ar- 
tifices to provide money for his convent, under the sacred character 
of a confessor. — With these unhallowed and untrue sons of the 
church is contrasted the Parson, or parish priest : in describing 
whose sanctity, simplicity, sincerity, patience, industry, courage, 
and conscientious impartiality, Chaucer shows his good sense and 
good heart. t. warton. 

A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie, 
An out-rider, that loved venerie ; 
A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable : 
And whan he rode, men mighte his bridel here, o 

Gingeling in a whistling wind as clere, 
And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle, 
Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 

The reule of seint Maure and of seint Beneit, 
Because that it was olde and somdele streit, 10 

This ilke monk lette olde thinges pace, 
And held after the newe world the trace. 
He yave not of the text a pulled hen, 
That saith, that huuters ben not holy men ; 
Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeles. 15 

Line 2. Venerie— hunting-. 

10. Somdele — somewhat. 

11. like— same. 

11. Pace — pass away. 

13. A pulled hen— i. e. He did not care a straw for the text, which says 
that hunters are not holy men. 

15. Rekkeles— "As the known senses," says Mr. Tyrwhitt, "of rekkeles, 
viz. careless, negligent, by no means suit with this passage, I am 
inclined to think that Chaucer wrote regnelles, i. e. without rule " 



24 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Is like to a fish that is waterles ; 

This is to say, a monk out of his cloistre. 

This ilke text held he not wroth an oistre. 

And I say his opinion was good. 

What shulde he studie, and make himselven wood, 20 

Upon a hook in cloistre alway to pore, 

Or swinken with his hondes, and laboure, 

As Austin bit? how shal the world be served ? 

Let Austin have his swink to him reserved. 

Therefore he was a prickasoure a right : 25 

Greihoundes he hadde as swift as foul of flight : 

Of pricking and of hunting for the hare 

Was all his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 

I saw his sieves purfiled at the hond 
With gris, and that the finest of the lond. 30 

And for to fasten his hood under his chinne, 
He hadde of gold ywrought a curious pinne : 
A love-knotte in the greter end therwas. 
His hed was balled, and shone as any glas, 
And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint. 35 

He was a lord ful fat and in good point. 
His eyen stepe, and rolling in his hed, 
That stemed as a forneis of a led. 
His botes souple, his hors in gret estat, 
Now certainly he was a fayre prelat. 40 

He was not pale as a forpined gost. 
A fat swan loved he best of any rost. 
His palfrey was as broune as is a bery. 



THE FRIAR. 

I cannot blame Chaucer for inveighing so sharply against the 
vices of the Clergy in his age ; their pride, their ambition, their 
pomp, their avarice, their worldly interest deserved the lashes 
which he gave them : — neither has his contemporary Boccace 



Line 20. Wood — mad. 

22. Swinken — work. 

23. Bit— bids. 

25. A prickasoure— a hard rider. 

30. Gris— his sleeves were worked upou the edge with a fuer called grig. 

36. Point— condition. 

41. Forpined — tormented. 



CHAUCER. 25 

spared them. Yet both these poets lived in much esteem with 
good and holy men in orders : lor the scandal which is given by 
particular priests, reflects not on the sacred function. Chaucer's 
Monk, and his Friar, took not from the character of his good Par- 
son. A satirical poet is the check of the laymen, on bad priests. 
We are only to take care, that we involve not the innocent with 
the guilty iD the same condemnation. The good cannot be too 
much honoured, nor the bad too coarsely used ; for the corruption 
of the best becomes the worst. dryden. 

A Frere there was, a wanton and a mery, 
A limitour, a full solempne man. 
In all the ordres foure is non that can 
So moche of daliance and fayre language. 
He hadde ymade ful many a mariage 5 

Of yonge wimmen, at his owen cost. 
Until his order he was a noble post. 
Ful wel beloved, and familier was he 
With frankeleins over all in his contree, 
And eke with worthy wimmen of the toun : 10 

For he had power of confession, 
As saide himselfe, more than a curat, 
For of his ordre he was licenciat. 
Ful swetely herde he confession, 

And plesant was his absolution. 15 

He was an esy man to give penance, 
Ther as he wiste to han a good pitance : 
For unto a poure ordre for to give 
Is signe that a man is wel yshrive. 

For if he gave, he dorste make avant, 20 

He wiste that a man was repentant. 
For many a man so hard is of his herte, 
He may not wepe although him sore smerte. 
Therfore in stede of weping and praieres, 
Men mote give silver to the poure freres. 25 

His tippet was ay farsed ful of knives, 
And pinnes, for to given fayre wives. 
And certainly he had a mery note. 

Line 2. A limitour— a friar licensed to beg or hear confessions within a cer- 
tain district. 
3. Ordres foure— the four orders of mendicants. 
7. Post— support. 
9. Frankeleins — large freeholders. 
26. Farsed— stuffed. 

£ 



26 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Wei coulde he singe and plaien on a rote. 

Of yeddinges he bare utterly pris. 30 

His nekke was white as is the flour de lis. 

Thereto he strong was as a champioun, 

And knew wel the tavernes in every toun, 

And every hosteler and gay tapstere, 

Better than a lazer or a beggere, 35 

For unto swiche a worthy man as he 

Accordeth nought, as by his faculte, 

To haven with sike lazars acquaintance. 

It is not honest, it may not advance, 

As for to delen with no swiche pouraille, 40 

But all with riche, and sellers of vitaille. 

And over all, ther as profit shuld arise, 
Curteis he was, and lowly of servise. 
Ther n'as no man no wher so vertuous. 
He was the beste beggar in all his hous : 45 

And gave a certain e ferme for the grant, 
Nou of his bretheren came in his haunt. 
For though a widewe hadde but a shoo, 
(So plesant was his In principle) 

Yet wold he have a ferthing or he went. 50 

His pourchas was wel better than his rent 
And rage he coude as he hadde ben a whelp 
In lovedayes, ther coude he mochel help 
For ther was he nat like a cloisterere, 
With thredbare cope, as is a poure scolere, 55 

But he was like a maister or a pope. 
Of double worsted was his semicope, 
That round was as a belle out of the presses 
Somewhat he lisped for his wantonnesse, 
To make his English swete upon his tonge ; 60 

And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe, 
His eyen twinkeled in his hed aright, 
As don the sterres in a frosty night. 



Line 29. Rote— a musical instrument. Notker, who lived in the tenth cen- 
tury, says, that it was the ancient Psalteriura, but altered in its 
shape, and with an additional number of strings. 
30 Yeddinges— " May perhaps mean story-telling."— ZTartoB. " A kind 

of son j from the Saxon Geddian, to sing." — W. G. Lewis. 
34. Hosteler— an inn. keeper. 

34. Tapstere— a woman, who in Chaucer's time, had the care of the tap 

in a public house. 

35. Lazar— a leper. 

45. Hous— convent. 

46. Ferme— farm. 






CHAUCER. 27 

THE PARSON. 

A good man ther was of religioun, 
That was a poure Persoxe of a toun : 
But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 5 

His parisheus devoutly wolde he techa. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversite ful patient : 
And swiche he was ypreved often sithes. 
Ful loth were, him to cursen for his tithes, 10 

But rather wolde he yeven out of doute, 
Unto his poure parishens aboute, 
Of his offring, and eke of his substance. 
He coude in litel thiog have suffisanee. 
Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder, 15 

But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder, 
In sikenesse and in mischief to visite 
The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, 
Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf. 
This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf 20 

That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught. 
Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
And this figure he added yet thereto, 
That if gold ruste, what shuld iren do ? 
For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust, *25 

No wonder is a lewed man to rust: 
And shame it is, if that a preest take kepe, 
To see a filthy shepherd, and elene shepe : 
Wei ought a preest ensample for to yeve, 
By his clenenesse, how his shepe shulde live. 30 

He sette not his benefice to hire, 
And lette his shepe acombred in the mire, 
And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, 
To seken him a chanterie for soules, 
Or with a brotherhede to be withold : -35 

But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold, 
So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. 
He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie. 
And though he holy were, and vertuous, 



Line 9. Sithes— times. 
II. Yeven — given. 

17. Mischief— misfortune. 

18. Ferrest — furthest. 

18. Moche and lite— i. e. rich and poor. 
20. Yaf-gave. 

e2 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

He was to sinful men not dispitous, 40 

Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne, 

But in his teaching discrete and benigDe. 

To drawen folk to Heven, with fairenesse, 

By good ensample, was his besinesse : 

But it were any persone obstinat, 45 

What so he were of highe, or low estat, 

Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. 

A better preest I trowe that no wber non is. 

He waited after no pompe ne reverence, 

He maked him no spiced conscience, 50 

But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 

He taught, but first he folwed it himselve. 



THE FRANKELEIN. 

The Fraukelein is a country gentleman, whose estate consisted 
in free land, and was not subject to feudal services or payments. 
He is ambitious of showing his riches by the plenty of his table : 
but his hospitality, a virtue much more practicable among our an- 
cestors than at present, often degenerates into luxurious excess. 
His impatience if his sauces were not sufficiently poignant, and 
every article of his dinner in due form and readiness, is touched 
with the hand of Pope or Boileau. He had been a president at 
the sessions, knight of the shire, a sheriff, and a coroner. 

1. BARTON. 

A Frankelein was in this compagnie; 
White was his herd, as is the dayesie. 
Of his complexion he was sanguin. 
Wei loved he by the morwe a sop in win. 
To liven in delit was ever his wone, 5 

For he was Epicures owen sone, 
That held opinion, that plein delit 

Line 40. Dispitous— angry to excess. 
41. Ne digne— nor disdainful. 
47. Nones — occasion. 
51. Lore— doctrine. 

4. A sop in win— he much loved in the morning a sop of wine. 

5. Wone— custom. 



CHAUCER. 29 

Was veraily felicite parfite. 

An householder, and that a grete was he : 

Seint Julian he was in his contree. 1 

His hrede, his ale, was alway after on ; 

A better envyned man was no wher non. 

Withouten bake mete never was his hous, 

Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous, 

It snewed in his house of mete and drinke, 15 

Of alle deintees that men coud of thinke, 

After the sondry sesons of the yere, 

So changed he his mete and his soupere. 

Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe, 

And many a breme, and many a luce in stewe. 20 

Wo was his coke, but if his sauce were 

Poinant and sharpe, and ready all his gere. 

His table dormant in is halle alway 

Stode redy covered alle the longe day. 

At sessions ther was he lord and sire. 25 

Ful often time he was knight of the shire. 
An auelace, and a gipciere all of silk, 
Heng at his girdel, white as morwe milk. 
A shereve hadde he ben, and a countour. 
Was no wher swiche a worthy vavasour. 30 

Line 8. Felicite parfite— perfect felicity. 

10. Seint Julian— Simon the leper, at whose house our Saviour lodged 

in Bethany, is called in the legends, Julian the good herborow, 
and Bishop of Beryn. Seint Julian was celebrated for supplying 
his votaries with good lodgings and all sorts of accommodation. 

11. After on — alike. 

12. Envyned— stored with wine. 

20. Luce — pike. 

21. But if— unless. 

27. Anelace— a kind of knife or dagger. 
27. Gipciere — a purse. 

29. Countour — This word is changed in Urry's edition to coroner, but 

upon what authority is not said. The MSS. all read it countour 
or comptour. At the same time it is not easy to say what office is 
meant, but probably a steward of some court, or keeper of the 
accounts.— W. G. Lewis. 

30. Vavasour — The import of this word is not very obvious, but it pro- 

bably means here, a landlord or country gentleman. 



e3 



30 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

THE REVE. 

The character of the Reve, tin officer of much greater trust and 
authority during the feudal constitution than at present, is happily 
pictured. His attention to the care and custody of the manors, 
the produce of which was then kept in hand for furnishing his 
lord's table, perpetually employs his time, preys upou his thoughts, 
and makes him lean and choleric. He is the terror of bailiffs and 
hinds ; and is remarkable for his circumspection y vigilance, and 
subtlety. He is never in arrears, and no auditor is able to over- 
reach or detect him in his accounts; yet he makes more commo- 
dious purchases for himself than for his master, without forfeiting 
the good will or bounty of the latter. Amidst these strokes of 
satire, Chaucer's genius for descriptive painting breaks forth in 
this simple and beautiful description of the Reve's rural habitation : 
" His wonning was ful fayre upon an heth, 
With grene trees yshadewed was his place." 

T. WARTON. 

The Reve was a slendre colerike man, 
His berd was shave as neighe as ever he can. 
His here was by his eres round yshorne. 
His top was docked like a preest beforne. 
Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 5 

Ylike a staff, ther was no calf ysene. 
Wei coude he kepe a garner and a binne : 
There was non auditour coude on him wmne. 
Wei wiste he by the drought, and by the rain, 
The y elding of his seed, and of his grain. 10 

His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie, 
His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie, 
Were holly in this reves gouerning, 
And by his covenant yave he rekening, 
Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age ; 15 

Ther coude no man bring him in arerage ; 
Ther n'as bailliff, ne herde, ne other hine. 



Line 3. Here— hair. 
3. Eres — ears. 
11. Nete — neat, cattle. 
13 Holly— wholly. 

16. Arerage— arrear. 

17. Herde— keeper. 
17. Hiue— servant. 



CHAUCER. 31 

That he ne knew his sleight and his covine : 

They were adradde of him, as of the deth. 

His wonning was ful fayre upon an heth, 20 

With grene trees yshadewed was his place. 

He coude better than his lord pourchase. 

Ful rich he was ystored privily. 

His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 

To yeve and lene him of his owen good, 25 

And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. 

In youth he lerned hadde a good mistere : 

He was a wel good wright, a carpentere. 

?|is reve sate upon a right good stot, 
hat was all pomelee grey, and highte Scot. 30 

A long surcote of perse upon he hade, 
And by his side he bare a rusty blade. 
Of Norfolk was this reve, of which I tell, 
Besides a toun, men clepen Baldeswell. 
Tucked he was, as is a frere, about, 35 

And ever he rode the hinderest of the route. 



THE SOMPNOUR. 

The Sompnour, whose office it was to summon uncanonical 
offenders into the Archdeacon's court, where they were very rigor- 
ously punished, is humorously drawn as counteracting his profession 
by his example : he is libidinous and voluptuous, and his rosy 
countenance belies his occupation. This is an indirect satire on 
the ecclesiastical proceedings of those times. His affectation of 
Latin terms, which he had picked up from the decrees and plead 
ings of the court, must have formed a character highly ridiculous. 
He is with great propriety made the friend and companion of the 
Pardoner, or dispenser of indulgences, who is just arrived from the 



Line 18. Covine— secret contrivances. 
20. Wonning— dwelling. 
25. Lene— lend or grant. 
27. Mistere— trade. 

29. Stot— a steed. 

30. Pomelee— dappled. 
30. Highte— called. 
34. Clepen— call. 



32 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Pope " brimful of pardons come from Rome all hote;" aud who 
carries in his wallet among other holy curiosities, the Virgin Mary's 
veil, and part of the sail of Saint Peter's ship. T. Warton. 

A Sompnour was ther with us in that place, 
That hadde a fire red cherubinnes face, 
For sausefleme he was, with eyen narwe. 
As hote he was, and likerous as a sparwe, 
With scalled browes blake, and pilled berd : 5 

Of his visage children were sore aferd. 
Ther n'as quiksilver, litarge, ne brimston, 
Boras, ceruse, ne oile of tartre non, 
Ne ointmeut that wolde dense or bite, 
That him might helpen of his whelkes white, 10 

Ne of the knobbes sitting on his chekes. 
Wei loved he garlike, onions, and lekes, 
And for to driuke strong win as rede as blood. 
Than wolde he speke, aud crie as he were wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken had the win, 15 

Than wold he speken no word but Latin. 
A fewe termes coude he, two or three, 
That he had lerned out of som decree j 
No wonder is, he herd it all the day. 
And eke ye knowen wel, how that a jay 20 

Can clepen watte, as wel as can the pope. 
But who so wolde in other thing him grope, 
Than hadde he spent all his philosophic, 
Ay, Questio quid juris, wolde he crie. 

He was a gentil harlot and a kind ; 25 

A better felaw shulde a man not find. 
He wolde sufFre for a quart of wine, 
A good felaw to have his concubine 
A twelve month, and excuse him at the full. 
Ful prively a finch eke coude he pulL- 
And if he found owhere a good felawe, 
He wolde techen him to have non awe 



Line 3. Sausefleme— red, pimpled. 
5. Scalled— scabby or scurfy. 

7. Litarge— lead. 

8. Ceruse— white lead. 
14. Wood — mad. 

22. Grope — examine. 

25. Harlot— This word thongh now generally applied to women, is 

equally applicable to men. It is derived from a Saxon word sig. 

nifying to hire. 

30. Finch— To pull a finch, meant to rob a man. 

31. Owhere— anywhere. 



CHAUCER. 33 

In swiche a cas of the archedekenes curse ; 

But if a mannes soule were in his purse ; 

For in his purse he shulde ypunished be. 35 

Purse is the archedekens helle, said he. 

But wel I wote, he lied right in dede. 



THE PARDONER. 

With him ther rode a gentil Pardonere 
Of Rouncevall, his frend and his compere, 
That streit was comen from the court of Rome. 
Ful loude he sang, Come hither, love, to me. 
This pardoner had here as yelwe as wax, 5 

But smoth it heng, as doth a strike of flax : 
By unces heng his lokkes that he hadde, 
And therwith he his shulders overspradde. 
Ful thinne it lay, by culpons on and on, 
But hode, for jolite, ne wered he non, 10 

For it was trussed up in his wallet. 
Him thought he rode al of the newe get, 
Dishevele, sauf his cappe, he rode all bare. 
Swiche glaring eyen hadde he, as an hare. 
A vernicle hadde he sewed upon his cappe. 15 

His wallet lay beforne him in his lappe, 
Bret-ful of pardons come from Rome al hote. 
A vois he hadde, as smale as hath a gote. 
No berd hadde he, ne never non shulde have, 
As smothe it was as it were newe shave ; 20 

I trowe he were a gelding or a mare. 

But of his craft, fro Berwike unto Ware, 
Ne was ther swiche an other pardonere. 
For in his male he hadde a pilwebere, 
Which, as he saide, was our ladies veil : 25 

ine 2. Rouncevall— perhaps the name of some fraternity now unknown. 

5. Here— hair. 

6. Strike— a line or streak. 
9. Culpons— shreds. 

12. The newe get— the new fashion. 

13. Sauf— except. 

15. Vernicle— a picture of Christ. 

17. Bret-ful— top ful. 

24. Male— wallet. 

24. Pilwebere— pillow-cover. 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

He saide, he hadde a gobbet of the seyl 

Thatte Seint Peter had, whan that he went 

Upon the see, till Jesu Crist him hent. 

He had a crois of laton ful of stones, 

And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 30 

But with these relikes, whaune that he fond 

A poure persone dwelling up on lond, 

Upon a day he gat him more moneie 

Than that the persone gat in monethes tweie. 

And thus with fained flatterring and japes, 35 

He made the persone, and the peple, his apes. 

But trewely to tellen atte last, 
He was in church a noble ecclesiast. 
Weld coude he rede a lesson or a storie, 
But alderbest he sang an offertorie : 40 

For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, 
He muste preche, and wel afile his tonge, 
To winne silver, as he right wel coude : 
Therfore he sang the merier and loude. 



THE MILLER. 

The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, 
Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones j 
That proved wel, for over allther he came, 
At wrastling he wold bere away the ram. 
He was short shuldered, brode, a thikke gnarre, 5 

Ther n'as no dore, that he u'olde heve of barre, 
Or breke it at a renning with his hede. 
His berd as any sowe or fox was rede, 
And therto brode, as though it were a spade. 
Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 10 

A wert, and thereon stode a tufte of heres, 

Line 26. A gobbet of the seyl— a bit of the sail. 
23. Hent— caught. 

29. A crois of laton— a cross made of a mixed metal resembling brass. 
32. Persone— parson. 
35. Japes— tricks. 
40. Alderbest— best of all. 
40. Offertorie— a part of the mass. 
42. Afile— polish. 

4. Ram— a ram was the usual prize at wrestlir 
11. Heres— hairs. 



ANONYMOUS. 35 

Rede as the bristles of a sowes eres. 

His nose-thirles blacke were and wide. 

A swerd and bokeler bare he by his side. 

His mouth as wide was as a forneis. 15 

He was a jangler, and a goliardeis, 

And that was most of siune, and harlotries. 

Wei coude he stelen corn, and tollen thries. 

And yet he had a thomb of gold parde. 

A white cote and a blew hode wered he, 20 

A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune, 

A therwithall he brought us out of toune. 



ANONYMOUS, 1593. 



THE SOUL'S ERRAND. 

1 know not how this short production has ever affected other 
readers, but it carries to my imagination an appeal which I cannot 
easily account for from a few simple rhymes. It places the last 
and inexpressibly awful hour of existence before my view, and 
sounds like a sentence of vanity on the things of this world, pro- 
nounced by a dying man, whose eye glares ou eternity, and whose 
voice is raised by strength from another world. — This bold and 
spirited poem has been ascribed to several authors, but to none 
on satisfactory authority. It can be traced to MS. of a date as 
early as 1593. t. campbell. 

Go, Soul, the body's guest, 
Upon a thankless errand, 
Fear not to touch the best, 
The truth shall be thy warrant ; 
Go, since I need must die, 
And give the world the lie. 

Line 12. Eres— ears. 

16. A goliardeis— a follower of Golias, the founder of the jovial sect so 
called. 

18. Thries— thrice. 

19. A thomb of gold— the proverb says, " every honest miller has a 

thumb of gold." 



36 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Go, tell the Court it glows, 
And shines like rotten wood ; 
Go, tell the Church it shows 
What's good and doth no good ; 
If Church and Court reply 
Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates they live, 

Acting by others' actions, 

Not lov'd, unless they give, 

Not strong, but by their factions ; 

If potentates reply, 

Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition 
That rule affairs of state, 
Their purpose is ambition, 
Their practice only hate ; 
And if they once reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell them that brave it most, 
They beg for more by spending, 
Who in their greatest cost, 
Seek nothing but commending j 
And if they make reply, 
Then give them all the lie. 

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, 
Tell Love it is but lust, 
Tell Time it is but motion, 
Tell Flesh it is but dust ; 
And wish them not reply, 
For thou must give the lie. 

Tell Age it daily wasteth, 
Tell Honour how it alters, 
Tell Beauty how it blasteth, 
Tell Favour how she falters ; 
And as they shall reply, 
Give every one the he. 

Tell Wit how much it wrangles 
In treble points of niceness, 
Tell Wisdom she entangles 
Herself in overwiseness ; 
And when they do reply 
Straight give them both the lie. 



ANONYMOUS, 1593. 37 

Tell Physic of her boldness, 
Tell Skill it is pretension, 
Tell Charity of coldness, 
Tell Law it is contention ; 
And as they do reply, 
So give them still the lie. 

Tell Fortune of her blindness, 

Tell Nature of decay, 

Tell Friendship of unkindness, 

Tell Justice of delay ; 

And if they will reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell Arts they have no soundness, 

"But vary by esteemiug, 

Tell Schools they want profoundness, 

And stand too much on seeming ; 

If Arts and Schools reply 

Give Arts and Schools the lie. 

Tell Faith it's fled the city, 
Tell how the Country erreth, 
Tell Manhood shakes, off pity, 
Tell Virtue least preferreth > 
And if they should reply, 
Spare not to give the lie. 

And when thou hast, as I 
Commanded thee, done blabbing, 
Although to give the lie 
Deserves no less than stabbing ; 
Yet stab at thee who will, 
No stab the Soul can kill. 



38 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



EDMUND SPENSER, DIED 1598, AGED 45. 



ON SPENSER S POETRY. 

Of all the poets, Spenser is the most poetical. There is an origin- 
ality, richness, and variety in his allegorical personages and fic- 
tions, which almost vie with the splendour of the ancient mytho- 
logy. He waves his wand of enchantment, and at once embodies 
airy beings, and throws a delicious veil over all actual objects. — 
The two worlds of reality and of fiction are poised on the wings of 
his imagination. His ideas, indeed, seem more distinct than his 
perceptions. He is the painter of abstractions, and describes them 
with dazzling minuteness. The love of beauty, however, and not 
of truth, is the moving principle of his mind;* and he is guided in 
his fantastic delineations by no rule but the impulse of au inex- 
haustible imagination. He has been unjustly charged with a want 
of passion and of strength. He has both in an immense degree. — 
He has not indeed the pathos of immediate action or suffering, 
which is more properly the dramatic ; but he has all the pathos of 
sentiment and romance, all that belongs to distant objects of ter- 
ror, and uncertain, imaginary distress. His strength, in like 
manner, is not strength of will or action, of bone and muscle, nor 
is it coarse and palpable ; but it assumes a character of vastuess 



" Spenser's Hero is always Honour, Truth, Valour, Courtesy, but it is not 
Man. His Heroine is Meekness, Chastity, Constancy, Beauty, but it is not 
Woman ; — his landscapes are fertility, magnificence, verdure, splendour, but 
they are not Nature. His pictures have no relief; they are all light, or all 
shadow ; they are all wonder but no truth. Still do I not complain of them ; 
nor would I have them other than what they are. They are delightful, and 
matchless in their way. They are dreams: glorious soul-entrancing dreams. 
They are audacious, but magnificent falsehoods. — H. Neele. — [Ed.~\ 



SPENSER. 39 

and sublimity seen through the same visionary medium, and 
blended with the appalling associations of preternatural agency. — 
His versification is, at once, the most smooth and the most sound- 
ing in the language. It is a labyrinth of sweet sounds, 

" in many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out," 

that would cloy by their very sweetness, but that the ear is con- 
stantly relieved and enchanted by their continued variety of modu- 
lation, dwelling on the pauses of the action, or flowing on in a 
fuller tide of harmony with the movement of the sentiment. It 
has not the bold dramatic transitions of Shakespear's blank verse, 
nor' the high raised tone of Milton's; but it is the perfection of 
melting harmony, dissolving the soul in pleasure, or holding it 
captive in the chains of suspense. Spenser was the poet of our 
waking dreams ; and he has invented not only a language, but a 
music of his own for them. The undulations are infinite, like those 
of the waves of the sea : but the effect is still the same, lulling the 
senses into a deep oblivion of the jarring noises of the world, from 
which we have no wish to be ever recalled. hazlitt. 



ON THE SPENSEKIAN STANZA. 

The stanza of the Faery Queen is framed with such consummate 
skill that all its parts are indivisibly interlaced, and the rhythm 
proceeds with increasing strength and fulness through the whole 
till it is wound up in an harmonious, rich, and perfect close. — 
Never indeed did ignorance more impudently expose itself than 
when it awarded to Waller the praise of having first refined our 
verse, and to Pope that of having perfected it ! Spenser is the 
great master of English versification. We have been told that he 
who wishes to excel in writing prose, should give his days and nights 
to the study of Addison ; more truly might it be said that the poet 
who would learn the mysteries of bis art, should take Spenser for 
f2 



40 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

bis master, and drink of his poetry as from a well, — not indeed of 
English undefiled, but of perpetual harmony, pure thoughts, de- 
lightful imagery, and tender feeling. Considering him merely as 
a versifier, he has left in the common couplet an example of 
terseness, which Pope has never excelled. 

Full little knowest thou that hast not spied 
What hell it is in suing long to bide ; 
To lose good days that might be better spent, 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent j 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; 
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow ; 
To have thy prince's grace, yet want her peers; 
To have thy asking, yet wait many years ; 
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs ; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run ; 
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone. 

Quarterly Review, October, 1814. 



PRIDE AND HER ATTENDANTS. 



PRIDE. 

High above all a cloth of state was spread, 
And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day ; 
On which there sat, most brave embellished 
With royal robes and gorgeous array, 
A maiden queen, that shone as Titan's ray, 
In glistering gold and peerless precious stone ; 
Yet her bright blazing beauty did assay 
To dim the brightness of her glorious throne, 
As envying herself, that too exceeding shone. 

Of grisly Pluto she the daughter was, 
And sad Proserpina, the queen of hell ; 
Yet did she think her peerless worth to pas* 

* Surpass. 



SPENSER. 41 

That parentage ; with pride so did she swell : 
And thundering Jove, that high in heaven doth dwell, 
And wield the world, she claimed for her sire ; 
Or if that any else did Jove excel : 
For to the highest she did still aspire ; 
Or if ought higher were than that, did it desire. 

And proud Lucifera men did her call, 
That made herself a queen, and crown'd to be ; 
Yet rightful kingdom she had none at all, 
Ne heritage of native sovereignty ; 
But did usurp with wrong and tyranny 
Upon the sceptre, which she now did hold : 
Ne rul'd her realm with laws, but policy, 
And strong advisement of six wizards old, 
That with their counsels bad, her kingdom did uphold. 

Sudden upriseth from her stately place 

The royal dame, and for her coach doth call : 

All hurtlen* forth, and she with princely pace ; 

As fair Aurora in her. purple pall, 

Out of the east the dawning day doth call. 

So forth she comes: — 

Her coach was drawn of six unequal beasts, 
On which her six sage counsellors did ride, 
Taught to obey their bestial behests, 
With like conditions to their kinds applied. 



THE FIRST ATTENDANT. — IDLENESS. 



-The first- 



Was sluggish Idleness, the nurse of sin ; 
Upon a slothful ass he chose to ride, 
Array 'd in habit black, and amisf thin ; 
Like to a holy monk, the service to begin. 

And in his hand his portesse|| still he bare, 
That much was worn, but therein little read ; 
For of devotion he had little care, 
Still drown'd in sleep, and most of his days dead 

* Rush. 

t Apparel. 

II A prayer book. 

f3 



42 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Scarce could he once uphold his heavy head? 
To looken whether it were night or day. 
May seem the wain* was very evil lead, 
When such a one had guiding of the way, 
That knew not, whether right he went or else astray. 

From worldly cares himself he did esloyne,* 
And greatly shunned manly exercise ; 
From every work he challenged essoyne,|| 
For contemplation sake : yet otherwise 
His life he lead in lawless riotise ; 
By which he grew to grievous malady : 
For in his lustless limbs, through evil guise, 
A shaking fever reign'd continually. 
Such one was Idleness, first of this company. 



THE SECOND ATTENDANT. — GLUTTONY* 

And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony, 
Deformed creature, on a filthy swine ; 
His belly was upblown with luxury, 
And eke with fatness swollen were his eyne; 
And like a crane his neck was long and fine, 
With which he swallow'd up excessive feast, 
Foi want whereof poor people oft did pine : 
And all the way, most like a brutish beast, 
He spued up his gorge, that all did him deteast. 

In green vine leaves he was right fitly clad ; 
For other clothes he could not wear for heat : 
And on his head an ivy garland had, 
From under which fast trickled down the sweat : 
Still as he rode, he somewhat still did eat, 
And in his haud did bear a bousing can, 
Of which he supp'd so oft, that on his seat 
His drunken corse he scarce upholden can : 
In shape and life more like a monster than a man. 

Unfit he was for any wordly thing, 
And eke unable once to stir or go ; 
Not meet to be of counsel to a king, 

* Coach. 
+ Withdraw, 
II Excuse. 



SPENSER. 43 

Whose miud in meat and drink was drowned so, 
That from his friend he seldom knew his foe : 
Full of diseases was his carcass bine, 
And a dry dropsy thro' his flesh did flow, 
Which by misdiet daily greater grew. 
Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew. 



THE THIRD ATTENDANT.— LECHERY. 

And next to him rode lustful Lechery 
Upon a bearded goat, whose rugged hair, 
And whaly* eyes, (the sign of jealousy) 
Was like the person self, whom he did bear : 
Who rough, and black, and filthy did appear ; 
Unseemly man to please fair ladies' eye : 
Yet he of ladies oft was loved dear, 
When fairer faces were bid standen by. 
O who does know the bent of women's fantasy ? 

In a green gown he clothed was full fair, 
Which underneath did hide his filthiness ? 
And in his hand a burning heart he bare, 
Full of vain follies and new-fangleness :f 
For he was false, and fraught with fickleness, 
And learned had to love with secret looks, 
And well could dance, and sing with ruefulness, j| 
And fortunes tell, and read in loving books ; 
And thousand other ways, to bait his fleshly hooks. 

Inconstant man, that loved all he saw, 
And lusted after all, that he did love ; 
Ne would his looser life be tied to law, 
But joy'd weak women's hearts to tempt and prove, 
If from their loyal loves he might them move : 
Which lewdness fill'd him with reproachful pain, 
Of that foul evil, which all men reprove, 
That rots the marrow, and consumes the brain. 
Such one was Lechery, the third of all this train. 



* Marked in streaks. 

t A love of novelty and changes. 

II Pity or tenderness. 



44 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

THE FOURTH ATTENDANT. — AVARICE. 

And greedy Avarice by him did ride, 
Upon a camel loaden all with gold ; 
Two iron coffers hung on either side, 
With precious metal full as they might hold ; 
And in his lap a heap of coin he told : 
For of his wicked pelf his God he made, 
And unto hell himself for money sold : 
Accursed usury was all his trade ; 
And right and wrong ylike in equal balance waide.* 

His life was nigh unto death's door yplaste ;f 
And thread-bare coat, and cobbled shoes he ware ; 
Ne scarce good morsel all his life did taste ; 
But both from back and belly still did spare, 
To fill his bags, and riches to compare : 
Yet child ne kinsman living had he none 
To leave them to ; but thorough daily care 
To get, and nightly fear to lose his own, 
He had a wretched life, unto himself unknown. 

Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffice, 
Whose greedy lust did lack in greatest store ; 
Whose need had end, but no end covetise ; 
Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him pooi 
Who had enough, yet wished evermore. 
A vile disease, and eke in foot and hand 
A grievous gout tormented him full sore ; 
That well he could not touch, nor go, nor stand. 
Such one was Avarice, the fourth of this fair band. 



THE FIFTH ATTENDANT.— ENVY. 

And next to him malicious Envy rode 

Upon a ravenous wolf, and still did chaw 

Between his canker'd teeth a venomous toad, 

That all the poison ran about his jaw ; 

But inwardly he chewed his own maw 

At neighbours' wealth, that made him ever sad : 



Weighed. 
II Placed. 



SPENSER. 45 

For death it was, when any good he saw, 
And wept, that cause ot weeping none he had ; 
But when he heard of harm, he waxed wondrous glad. 

All in a kirtle* of discolour'd sayf 
He clothed was, ypainted full of eyes ; 
And in his bosom secretly there lay 
An hateful snake, the which his tail upties 
In many folds, and mortal sting implies. 
Still as he rode, he gnash' d his teeth to see 
Those heaps of gold with griple|| covetise 
And grudged at the great felicity 
Of proud Lucifera, and his own company. 

He hated all good works and virtuous deeds, 
And him no less, that any like did use : 
And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds, 
His alms for want of faith he doth accuse ; 
So every good to bad he doth abuse. 
And eke the verse of famous poets' wit 
He does backbite, and spiteful poison spues 
From leprous mouth on all that ever writ. 
Such one vile Envy was, that fifth in row did sit. 



THE SIXTH ATTENDANT.— WRATH. 

And him beside rides fierce revenging Wrath, 
Upon a lion, loath for to be lead ; 
And in his hand a burning brand he hath, 
The which he brandisheth about his head : 
His eyes did hurl forth sparkles fiery red, 
And stared stern on all that him beheld, 
As ashes pale of hue, and seeming dead ; 
And on his dagger still his hand he held, 
Trembling thro' hasty rage, when choler in him swell'd. 

His ruffian raiment all was stain'd with blood, 
Which he had spilt, and all to rags yrent ; 



* A woman's gown. 

+ A thin sort of silk stuff. 

II Greedy. 



46 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Thro' unadvised rashness woxen wood ;* 
For of his hands he had no government, 
Ne car'd for Wood in his avengement; 
But when the furious fit was overpast, 
His cruel facts he often would repent; 
Yet (wilful man) he never would forecast, 
How many mischiefs should ensue his heedless hast. 

Full many mischiefs follow cruel wrath ; 
Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife, 
Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scath,f 
Bitter despite, with rancour's rusty knife ; 
And fretting grief, the enemy of life : 
All these, and many moe|| haunt ire, 
The swelling spleen, and frenzy raging rife, 
The shaking palsy, and saint Francis' fire 
Such one was Wrath, the last of this ungodly tire. 

And after all upon the wagon beam 
Bode Satan with a smarting whip in hand, 
With which he forward lash'd the lazy team, 
So oft as Sloth still in the mire did stand. 
Huge routs of people did about them baud, 
Shouting for joy, and still before their way 
A foggy mist had cover' d all the land ; 
And underneath their feet, all scatter'd lay 
Dead skulls and bones of men, whose life had gone astray. 



THE ALLEGORY OF DESPAIR, 

The groundwork of all Spenser's fictions is the system of chivalry, 
as displayed in the romances of the time, and in the principal 
productions of Italian poetry. Knights wandering in search of 
adventures, distressed ladies, giants, Saracens, savages, dragons, 
enchantments, forests, and castles, were the materials with which 
these creations of the fancy were fabricated. — In all the records of 
poetry, no author can probably be found who approaches Spenser 



Grew mad. 
t Injury. 

II More. 



SPENSER. 47 

in the facility with which he embodies abstract ideas and converts 
them into actors in his fable. — He may, on the whole, be reckoned 
the greatest master of personification that ever existed ; and more 
original delineations of this kind are to be met with in the Faery 
Queene, than, perhaps, in all other poems united. Some of these 
are truly excellent, and are wrought into scenes of wonderful 
power. The Allegory of Despair may be placed at the head of all 
such fictions, as well for just conception and skilful management, 
as for unrivalled strength of description. It seems impossible by 
the medium of words to call up visual images in the mind with 
more force and distinctness, than is done in the pictures of the 
Knight Flying from Despair, of Despair himself in his cave, and 
of the Red- cross Knight receiving the dagger from his hands. 

DR. AIKIN. 



THE KNIGHT FLYING FROM DESPAIR. 

Una now weighing the decayed plight, 
And shrunken sinews of her chosen knight, 
Would not a while her forward course pursue, 
Ne bring him forth in face of dreadful fight, 
Till he recover'd had his former hue : 
For him to be yet weak and weary well she knew. 

So as they travell'd, lo they gan espy 
An armed knight towards them gallop fast, 
That seemed from some feared foe to fly, 
Or other grisly thing, that him aghast.* 
Still as he fled, his eye was backward cast, 
As if his fear still followed behind : 
Alsjj flew his steed, as he his bands had brast,f 
And with his winged heels did tread the wind, 
As he had been a foal of Pegasus's kind. 

Nigh as he drew, they might perceive his head 
To be unarm'd, and curl'd uncombed hairs 



* Frightened, 
t Also. 
II Burst. 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Upstaring stiff, dismay'd with uncouth dread : 
Nor drop of blood in all his face appears, 
Nor life in limb ; and, to increase his fears, 
(In foul reproach of knighthood's fair degree) 
About his neck an hempen rope he wears, 
That with his glistring arms does ill agree : 
But he of rope, or arms, has now no memory. 

The Red-cross knight towards him crossed fast, 
To weet* what mister wightf was so dismay'd : 
There him he finds all senseless and aghast,|| 
That of himself he seem'd to be afraid ; 
Whom hardly he from flying forward stay'd, 
Till he these words to him delivered might ; 
" Sir knight, aread,| who hath ye thus array' d, 
Aud eke from whom make ye this hasty flight ? 
7or never knight I saw in such misseeming plight." 

He answer'd nought at all ; but adding new 
Fear to his first amazement, staring wide 
With stony eyes and heartless hollow hue, 
Astonish'd stood, as one that had espied 
Infernal Furies with their chains untied. 
Him yet again, and yet again bespake 
The gentle knight, who nought to him replied ; 
But trembling every joint did inly quake, 
Andfaultring tongue at last these words seem'd forth to shake. 

" For God's dear love, sir knight, do me not stay ; 
For lo ! he comes, he comes fast after me." 
Eft§ looking back would fain have run away ; 
But he him forc'd to stay, and tellen free 
The secret cause of his perplexity : 
Yet nathemorelT by his bold hardy speech 
Could his blood frozen heart embolden'd be ; 
But thro' his boldness rather fear did reach: 
Yet forc'd at last he made thro' silence sudden breach ; 

" And am I now in safety sure," quoth he, 
" From him, that would have forced me to die ? 
And is the point of death now turn'd from me, 
That I may tell this hapless history ?" 



Know. t Sort of person. II Frightened. % Declare or tell. 
\ Then or again. M Never more. 



SPENSER. 49 

" Fear nought," quoth he, " no danger now is nigh." 
" Then shall I you recount a rueful case," 
Said he, " the which with this unlucky eye 
I late beheld, and, had not greater grace 
Me reft from it, had been partaker of the place. 

"I lately chanc'd (would I had never chanc'd !) 
With a fair knight to keepen company, 
Sir Terwin hight,* that well himself advanc'd 
In all affairs, and was both bold and free - y 
But not so happy as motef happy be : 
He lov'd as was his lot, a lady gent, 
That him again lov'd in the least degree : 
For she was proud, and of too high intent, 
And joy'd to see her lover languish and lament. 

From whom returning sad and comfortless, 
As on the way together we did fare, 
We met that villain, (God from him me bless !) 
That cursed wight, from whom I scap'd why leare,|j 
A man of hell, that calls himself Despair : 
Who first us greets, and after fair areads^: 
Of tidings strange, and of adventures rare : 
So creeping close, as snake in hidden weeds, 
Inquireth of our states and of our knightly deeds. 

" Which when he knew, and felt our feeble hearts 
Emboss'd with bale§ and bitter biting grief, 
Which love had launched with his deadly darts ; 
With wounding words, and terms of foul reprief,! 
He pluck'd from us all hope of due relief, 
That erst us held in love of ling'ring life : 
Then hopeless, heartless, gan the cunning thief 
Persuade us die, to stint* * all further strife : 

To me he lent this rope, to him a rusty knife. 

" With which sad instrument of hasty death, 
That woeful lover, loathing longer light, 
A wide way made to let forth living breath. 
But I more fearful, or more lucky wight, 
Dismay'd with that deformed dismal sight, 
Fled fast away, half dead with dying fear ; 
Ne yet assur'd of life by you, sir knight, 
Whose like infirmity like chance may bear: 
But God you never let his charmed speeches hear !" 



Called. t Might. II Sometime before. + Discourses. 
5 Misery. IT Reproof " Stop. 

G 



50 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

"How may a man," said he, " with idle speech 
Be won to spoil the castle of his health ?" 
" I wote,"* quoth he, " whom trial late did teach, 
That like would not for all this worldes wealth. 
His subtile tongue like dropping honey melt'h 
Into the heart, and searcheth every vein, 
That ere one be aware, by secret stealth 
His power is reft, and weakness doth remain. 
O never, sir, desire to try his guileful train." 

" Certes,"f said he, " hence shall I never rest, 
Till I that treachour's|| art have heard and tried : 
And you, sir knight, whose name mote I request, 
Of grace do me unto his cabin guide." 
" I that bight J Trevisan," quoth he, " will ride 
Against my liking back, to do you grace : 
But not for gold nor glee will I abide 
By you, when ye arrive in that same place 
For lever had§ I die than see his deadly face." 

Ere long they come, where that same wicked wight 
His dwelling has, low in a hollow cave, 
Far underneath a craggy cliff ypight,! 
Dark, doleful, dreary, like a greedy grave, 
That still for carrion carcasses dolh crave : 
On top whereof ay" dwelt the ghastly owl, 
Shrieking his baleful note, which ever drave 
Far from that haunt all other cheerful fowl ; 
And all about it wand'ring ghosts did wail and howl. 

And all about old stocks and stubs of trees, 
Whereon nor fruit nor leaf was ever seen, 
Did hang upon the ragged rocky knees ; 
On which had many wretehes hanged been, 
Whose carcasses were scatter'd on the green, 
And thrown about the cliffs. Arrived there, 
That bare-head knight, for dread and doleful teen, 
Would faiu have fled, ne durst approachen near ; 
But th' other forc'd him stav, aud comforted in fear. 



Know. + CertaLuly. II Traitors. •: Am called. \ Rather would 
n Placed. •' Ever. 



SPENSER. 51 



DESPAIR IN HIS CAVE. 

That darksome cave they enter, where they find 
That cursed man, low sitting on the ground, 
Musing full sadly in his sullen mind ; 
His grisly locks long growen and unbound, 
Disorder'd hung about his shoulders round, 
And hid his face; thro' which his hollow eyne* 
Look'd deadly dull, and stared as astound ;t 
His raw-bone cheeks, thro' penury and pine, 
Were shrunk into his jaws, as he did never dine. 

His garment, nought but many ragged clouts, 
"With thorns together pinn'd and patched was, 
The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts : 
And him beside there lay upon the grass 
A dreary corse, whose life away did pass, 
All wallow'd in his yet lukewarm blood, 
That from his wound yet welled fresh, alas ! 
In which a rusty knife fast fixed stood, 
And made an open passage for the gushing flood. 

Which piteous spectacle approving true 
The woeful tale that Trevisan had told, 
When as the gentle Red-cross Knight did view, 
With fiery zeal he burnt in courage bold 
Him to avenge, before his blood were cold ; 
And to the villain said, " Thou damned wight, 
The author of this fact we here behold, 
What justice can but judge against the right, 
With thine own blood to price his blood, here shed in sight?" 

" What frantic fit," quoth he, " hath thus distraught |j 
Thee, foolish man, so rash a doom to give ? 
What justice ever other judgment taught, 
But he should die, who merits not to live ? 
None else to death this man despairing drive, 
But his own guilty mind deserving death. 
Is then unjust to each his due to give ? 
Or let him die, that loatheth living breath ? 
Or let him die at ease, that liveth here uneath ?J 

" Who travels by the weary waud'ring way, 
To come unto his wished home in haste, 
And meets a flood, that doth his passage stay, 
Is not great grace to help him over past, 

* Eyes. t Astonished. II Distracted. % With difficult}. 
F 2 



52 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Or free his feet, that in the mire stick fast ? 
Most envious man, that grieves at neighbour's good, 
And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast, 
Why wilt not let him pass, that long hath stood 
Upon the bank, yet wilt thyself not pass the flood? 

" He there does now enjoy eternal rest 
And happy ease, which thou dost want and crave, 
And further from it daily wanderest : 
What if some little pain the passage have, 
That makes frail flesh to fear the bitter wave ? 
Is not short pain well borne that brings long ease, 
And lays the soul to sleep in quiet grave ? 
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, 
Ease after war, death after life, does greatly please." 

The knight much wondered at his sudden wit, 
And said, " The term of life is limited, 
Ne may a man prolong, nor shorten it : 
The soldier may not move from watchful sted 3 * 
Nor leave his stand, until his captain bed.''+ 
" Who life did limit by almighty doom," 
Quoth he, " knows best the terms established ; 
And he that points the centinel his room, 
Doth license him depart at sound of morning droom.|| 

" Is not his deed, what ever thing is done 
In heaveu and earth ? did not he all create 
To die again ? all ends, that was begun : 
Their times in his eternal book of fate 
Are written sure, and have their certain date. 
Who then can strive with strong necessity, 
That holds the world in his still-changing state ? 
Or shun the death ordained by destiny ? 
When hour of death is come, let none ask whence nor why. 

" The longer life, I wote the greater sin ; 
The greater sin, the greater punishment : 
All those great battles, which thou boasts to win, 
Thro' strife, and bloodshed, and avengement, 
Now prais'd, hereafter dear thou shalt repent : 
For life must life, and blood must blood repay. 
Is not enough thy evil life forespent? 
For he, that once hath missed the right way, 
The further he doth go, the further he doth stray. 



Station. t Bid. II Drum. 



SPENSER. 53 

** Then do no further go, no further stray j 
But here lie down, and to thy rest betake, 
Th'ill to prevent, that life ensewen* may. 
For what hath life, that may it loved make, 
Aud gives not rather cause it to forsake ? 
Fear, sickness, age, loss, labour, sorrow, strife, 
Pain, hunger, cold, that make the heart to quake, 
And ever fickle fortune rageth rife ; 
All which, and thousands more do make a loathsome life. 

" Thou, wretched man, of death hast greatest need, 
If in true balance thou wilt weigh thy state ; 
For never knight, that dared warlike deed, 
More luckless disadventures did amate : f 
Witness the dungeon deep, wherein of late 
Thy life shut up for death so oft did call ; 
And tho' good luck prolonged hath thy date, 
Yet death then would the like mishaps forestal, 
Into the which hereafter thou may'st happen fall. 

" Why then dost thou, O man of sin, desire 
To draw thy days forth to their last degree ? 
Is not the measure of thy sinful hire 
High heaped up with huge iniquity, 
Against the day of wrath, to burden thee ? 
Is not enough, that to this lady mild 
Thou falsed|| hast thy faith with perjury, 
And sold thyself to serve Duessavild,^: 
With whom in all abuse thou hast thyself defil'd. 

" Is not he just, that all this doth behold 
From highest heaven, and bears an equal eye ? 
Shall he thy sins up in his knowledge fold, 
And guilty be of thine impiety ? 
Is not his law, Let every sinner die ; 
Die shall all flesh? what then must needs be done, 
Is it not better to die willingly, 
Thau linger till the glass be all out-run ? 
Death is the end of woes : die soon, O faries' son !" 

The knight was much enmoved with his speech, 
That as a sword's point thro' his heart did pearce, 
And in his conscience made a secret breach, 
Well knowing true all that he did rehearse, 
And to his fresh remembrance did reverse 
The ugly view of his deformed crimes ; 

* Ensue. t Attend. II Falsified. $ Vile. 

g3 



64 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

That all his manly powers it did disperse, 
As he were charmed with enchanted rhymes ; 
That oftentimes he quak'd, and fainted oftentimes. 



THE KNIGHT RECEIVING THE DAGGER. 

It is a trite observation, that we paint that best, which we have 
felt most. Spenser's whole life seems to have consisted of dis- 
appointments and distress ; so that be, probably, was not un- 
acquainted with the bitter agonies of a despairing mind, which 
the warmth of his imagination, and, what was its consequence, 
his sensibility of temper, contributed to render doubly severe. Un- 
merited and unpitied indigence ever struggles hardest with true 
genius ; and a good taste, for the same reason that it enhances 
the pleasures of life, sustains with uncommon torture the miseries 
of that state. t. warton. 



Then gan the villain him to overcraw,* 
And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison, fixe, 
And all that might him to perdition draw ; 
And bade him choose, what death he would desire : 
For death was due to him, that had provok'd God's ire. 

But whenas none of them he saw him take, 
He to him raughtt a dagger sharp and keen, 
And gave it him in hand ; his hand did quake, 
And tremble like a leaf of aspin green, 
And troubled blood thro' his pale face was seen 
To come and go with tidings from the heart, 
As it a running messenger had been. 
At last resolv'd to work his final smart, 
He lifted up his hand, that back again did start. 

Which whenas Una saw, thro' every vein 
The cradled cold ran to her well of life, 



Insult t Reached. 



SPENSER. 55 

As in a swoon ; but soon reliv'd* again, 
Out of his hand she snatch'd the cursed knife, 
And threw it to the ground, euraged rife,f 
And to him said, " Fie, fie, faint-hearted knight, 
What meanest thou by this reproachful strife ? 
Is this the battle, which thou vaunt'st to fight 
With that fire-mouthed dragon, horrible and bright ? 

" Come, come away, frail, feeble, fleshly wight, 
Ne let vain words bewitch thy manly heart, 
Ne devilish thoughts dismay thy constant spright.|| 
In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part ? 
Why shouldst thou then despair, that chosen art? 
Where justice grows, there grows eke greater grace, 
The which doth quench the brond| of hellish smart, 
And that accurs'd hand-writing doth deface. 
Arise, sir knight, arise, and leave this cursed place.'' 

So up he rose, and thence amounted straight. 
Which when the carl§ beheld, and saw his guest 
Would safe depart, for all his subtle sleight, 
He chose a halter from among the rest, 
And with it hung himself, unbid, unbless'd. 
But death he could not work himself thereby ; 
For thousand times he so himself had dress'd, 
Yet nathelessll it could not do him die, 
Till he should die his last, that is eternally. 



Brought to life. t Greatly. II Cheerfulness. t Fire-brand. 
? Churl. "TT Nevertheless. 



56 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



WM. SHAKESPEAR, DIED 1616, AGED 53. 



SHAKESPEAR'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

The striking peculiarity of Shakespear's mind was its generic 
quality, its power of communication with all other minds — so that 
it contained a universe of thought and feeling within itself, and 
had no one peculiar bias, or exclusive excellence more than au- 
other. He not only had in himself the germs of every faculty 
and feeling, but he could follow them by anticipation, intuitively, 
into all their conceivable ramifications, through every change of 
fortune or conflict of passion, or turn of thought. His genius 
shone equally on the evil and the good, on the wise and the fool- 
ish, the monarch and the beggar ; " all comers of the earth, kings, 
queens, and states, maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave," 
are hardly hid from his searching glance. He was like the genius 
of humanity, changing places with all of us at pleasure, aud play- 
ing with our purposes as with his own. He turned the globe round 
for his amusement, and surveyed the generations of men, and the 
individuals as they passed, with their different concerns, passions, 
follies, vices, virtues, actions, and motives — as well those that they 
knew, as those which they did not know, or acknowledge to them- 
selves. The dreams of childhood, the ravings of despair, were the 
toys of his fancy. Airy beings waited at his call, and came at his 
bidding. Harmless fairies " nodded to him, and did him curtesies:" 
and the night-hag bestrode the blast at the command of " his so 
potent art." The world of spirits lay open to him, like the world 
of real men and women : and there is the same truth in his delinea- 
tions of the one as of the other •> for if the preternatural charac- 
ters he describes could be supposed to exist, they would speak, and 
fed, and act, as he makes them. He had only to think of any 



SHAKES PEAR. 57 

thing in order to become that thing, with all the circurnstauces 
belonging to it. When he conceived of a character, whether real 
or imaginary, he not only entered into all its thoughts and feelings, 
but seemed instantly, and as if by touching a secret spring, to be 
surrounded with all the same objects, "subject to the same skyey 
influences," the same local, outward, and unforeseen accidents 
which would occur in reality. In reading this author, you do not 
merely learn what his characters say, — you see their persons. By 
something expressed or understood, you are at no loss to decipher 
their peculiar physiognomy. A word, an epithet, paints a whole 
scene, or throws us back whole years in the history of the person 
represented. How well the silent anguish of Macduff is conveyed 
to the reader, by the friendly expostulation of Malcolm — 

" What ! man, ne'er pull your bat upon your brows !" 

That which more than anything else distinguishes the dramatic 
productions of Shakespear from all others, is his wonderful truth 
and individuality of conception. Each of his characters is as much 
itself, and as absolutely independent of the rest, as well as of the 
author, as if they were living persons, not fictions of the mind. 
The poet may be said, for the time, to identify himself with the 
character he wishes to represent, and to pass from one to another, 
like the same soul successively animating differing bodies. His 
dialogues are carried on without any consciousness of what is to 
follow, without any appearance of preparation or premeditation. 
The gusts of passion come and go like sounds of music borne on 
the wind. Nothing is made out by formal inference and analogy, 
by climax and antithesis : all comes or seems to come, immedi- 
ately from nature. Each object and circumstance exists in his 
mind, as it would have existed in reality : each several traiu of 
thought and feeling goes on of itself, without confusion or effort. 
In the world of his imagination, every thing has a life, a place, 
and being of its own. 

The passion in Shakespear is of the same nature as his delinea- 
tion of character. It is not someone habitual feeling or sentiment 



58 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

preying upon itself, growing out of itself, and moulding every 
thing to itself ; it is passion modified by passion, by all the other 
feelings to which the individual is liable, and to which others are 
liable with him; subject to all the fluctuations of caprice and ac- 
cident ; calling into play all the resources of the understanding, 
and all the energies of the will; irritated by obstacles or yielding 
to them ; rising from small beginnings to its utmost height ; 
now drunk with hope, now stung to madness, now sunk in despair, 
and now raging like a torrent. Nearly all the dialogues in Shake- 
spear, where the interest is wrought up to its highest pitch, afford 
examples of this dramatic fluctuation of passion. The interest in 
Chaucer is quite different ; it is like the course of a river, strong, 
and full, and increasing. In Shakespear, on the contrary, it is 
like the sea, agitated this way and that, and loud lashed by furious 
storms; while in the still pauses of the blast, we distinguish only 
the cries of despair, or the silence of death ! 

Shakespear's language and versification are like the rest of 
him. He has magic power over words : they come winged at his 
bidding; and seem to know their places. They are struck out at a 
heat, on the spur of the occasion, and have all the truth and vivid- 
ness which arise from an actual impression of the objects. His 
epithets and single phrases are like sparkles thrown off from an 
imagination fired by the whirling rapidity of its own motion. His 
language is hieroglyphical. It translates thoughts into visible 
images. It is the only blank verse in the language, except Mil- 
ton's, that for itself is readable. It is not stately and uniformly 
swelling like his, but varied and broken by the inequalities of the 
ground it has to pass over in its uncertain course, 

" And so by many winding nooks it strays, 
With willing sport to the wild ocean." 

The faults of Shakespear are not so many or so great as they have 
been represented; what there are, are chiefly owing to the follow- 
ing causes : — The universality of his genius was, perhaps, a dis- 
advantage to his single works ; the variety of bis resources, some- 
times diverting him from applying them to the most effectual 



SHAKESPEAR. 59 

purposes. He might be said to combine the powers of JEschylus 
and Aristophanes, of Dante and Rabelais, in his own mind. If he 
had been only half what he was, he would perhaps have appeared 
greater. The natural ease and indifference of his temper made 
him somttimes less scrupulous than he might have been. His 
rery facility of production would make him set less value on his 
own excellences, and not care to distinguish nicely between what 
he did well or ill. His blunders in chronology and geography do 
not amount to above half a dozen, and they are offences against 
chronology and geography, not agaiust poetry. As to the unities, 
he was right in setting them at defiance. He was fonder of puns* 
than became so great a man. His barbarisms were those of his 
age. His genius was his own. He had no objection to float down 
with the stream of common taste and opinion : he rose above it 
by his own buoyancy, and an impulse which he could not keep 
under, in spite of himself or others, and " his delights did show 
most dolphin-like." hazlitt. 



ON THE FAME OF SHAKESPEAR. 

The fame of Shakespear has naturally suggested an enquiry as to 
the peculiar powers of that mind, which could acquire such an in- 
fluence over the minds of others. What was the talisman that 
worked these wonders ? Wherein did he surpass that world which 
has paid him such extraordinary honours ? The answers to these 
enquiries have been as various as the tastes and opinions of readers. 
His wit, his imagination, his sublimity, have all been suggested as 
the distinguished characteristics of his mind; — but whatever may 



AsFalstaff, whom Shakespear certainly intended to be perfectly witty, is 
less addicted to quibble and play on words, than any of his comic charac- 
ters, I think we may fairly conclude, our author was sensible that it was but 
false kind of wit, which he practised from the hard necessity of the times : 
for in that age, the Professor quibbled in his chair, the Judge quibbled on 
the bench, the Prelate quibbled in the pulpit, the Statesman quibbled at 
the council. board ; nay, even Majesty quibbled on the throne. — Mrs. Mon- 
tagu— [Ed.] 



60 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

have been the strongest marked feature in the mind of our author, 
we are convinced that the theory which refers his astonishing fame 
to the possession of any one peculiar quality, is erroneous. His 
distinguishing characteristic is the union of many excellencies: 
each of which he possessed in a degree unequalled by any other 
Poet. Shakespear will be found pre-eminent, if we consider his 
sublimity, his pathos, his imagination, his wit, or his humour • 
his union in his own person of the highest tragic and comic ex- 
cellence, and his knowledge of nature, animate, inanimate, and 
human. To excel in any one of these particulars would form a 
great Poet; to unite two or three of them, is a lot too lofty even 
for the ambition of highly favoured mortals ; but to combine all, 
as Shakespear has done, in one tremendous intellect, is indeed, — 

" To get the start of the majestic world 
And bear the palra alone !" 

The genius of Shakespear cannot be illustrated by a reference to 
that of any other poet ; for, with whom is he to be compared ? 
Like his own Richard — 

" He has no brother, is like no brother, 
He is himself alone !" 

Geniuses of the most colossal dimensions become dwarfed by his 
side. Like Titan, he is a giant among giants, Like him too, he 
piles up his magnificent thoughts Olympus high ; he grasps the 
lightnings of creative Jove ; and speaks the words that call spirits, 
and mortals, and worlds, into existence. He has faults, doubt- 
less ; faults which it is not my purpose either to extenuate, or to 
deny, but the critic who thinks that such faults are of much 
weight, when opposed to his genius, would be likely to condemn 
the Apollo Belvidere, for a stain upon the pedestal. The very 
brightness of transcendant excellence renders its faults and imper- 
fections but the more visible ; nothing appears faultless but medio- 
crity. The moon and the stars shine with unsullied brightness; 
the sun alone exhibits spots upon his disk ! henry neele. 



SHAKESPEAR. 61 

ISABELLA PLEADING FOR HER BROTHER 
CLAUDIO. 

Isabella. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, 
Please but your honour hear me. 

Angelo. Well ; what's your siut ? 

Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die : 
I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 
And not my brother. 

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ' 
Why, every fault's condemn'd, ere it be done : 
Mine were the very cipher of a function, 
To find the faults, whose fine stands in record, 
And let go by the actor. 

Isab. O just, but severe law ! 
Must he needs die? 

Ang. Maiden, no remedy. 

Isab. Yes; I do think that you mightpardon him, 
And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy. 

Ang. He's sentenc'd; tis too late. 

Isab. Too late? why, no ; I, that do speak a word, 
May call it back again : Well, believe* this, 
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
Become them with one half so good a grace, 
As mercy does. If he had been as you, 
And you as he, you would have sliptlike him ; 
But he, like you, would not have been so stern. 

Ang. Pray you, begone. 

Isab. I would to heaven I had your potency, 
And you were Isabel ! should it then be thus ? 
No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a j udge, 
And what a prisoner. 

Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, 
And you but waste yoar words. 

Isab. Alas! alas! 
Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 
And He that might the vautage best have took, 
Fouud out the remedy : How would you be, 
If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
But judge you as you are ? O, think on that ; 
And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
Like man new made. 

Ang. Be you content, fair maid; 
It is the law, not I, condemns your brother : 

* Be assured of. 
H 



62 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, 

It should be thus with him; — he must die to-morrow. 

Isab. To-morrow ? O, that's sudden ! spare him, spare him 
Yet show some pity. 

Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ; 
For then I pity those I do not know, 
Which a dismiss' d offence would after gall ; 
And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, 
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; 
Your brother dies to-morrow. 

Isab. O, it is excellent 
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. 
Could great men thunder 

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, 
For every pelting, petty* officer, 

Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder. 

Merciful heaven ! 

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 

Split's^ the unwedgeable and gnarledf oak, 

Than the soft myrtle : — O, but man, proud man ! 

Drest in a little brief authority ; 

Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, 

His glassy essence, — like an angry ape, 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, 

As make the angels weep ; who, with our spleens, 

Would all themselves laugh mortal. 

We cannot weigh our brother with ourself : 

Great men may jest with saints : 'tis wit in them ; 

But, in the less, foul profanation. 

That in the captain's but a choleric word, 

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. 

Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? 

Isab Because authority, though it err like others, 
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself, 
That skins the vice o' the top : Go to your bosom ; 
Knock there; and ask your heart, what it doth know 
That's like my brother's fault : if it confess 
A natural guiltiness, such as is his, 
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
Against my brother's life. 

Ang. Well : come to me 
To-morrow. 

Isab. At what hour to-morrow 
Shall I attend your lordship ? 

Ang. At any time 'forenoon. 

Isab. Save your honour. [Exit.] 

* Paltry, 
t Knotted. 



SHAKESPEAR. 63 

Ang. From thee ; even from thy virtue ! — 
What's this ? what's this ? Is this her fault or mine ? 
The tempter, or the tempted, who sins most? Ha ! 
Not she ; nor doth she tempt : but it is I, 
That lying by the violet, in the sun, 
Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower, 
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be, 
That modesty may more betray our sense 
Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, 
Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, 
And pitch our evils there ? O, fie, fie, fie ! 
What dost thou ? or what art thou, Angelo 
Dost thou desire her foully, for those things 
That make her good ? O, let her brother live ; 
Thieves for their robbery have authority, 
When judges steal themselves. What? do I love her, 
That I desire to hear her speak again, 
And feast upon her eyes ? What is't I dream on ? 
O, cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, 
With saiuts dost bait thy hook ! Most daugerous 
Is that temptation, that doth goad us on 
To sin in loving virtue. 



MERCY. 



Portia : Do you confess the bond? 

Antonio : I do. 

Portia : Then must the Jew be mereiful. 

Shylock : On what compulsion must I ? tell me (hat. 

Portia: The quality of mercy is not straiu'd ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown : 
His septre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 

G 2 



64 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 



SILVIUS AND PHEBE. 

There is no passion which Shakespear more frequently, or more 
poetically describes, than that of love ; and as it is the one which' 
by its despotism in our youthful years, often forms the destiny of 
our future life, and holds so immediate^, relation to morals, we 
should suffer no occasion to pass unnoticed, however humorously 
or ludicrously expressed, which either defines its nature, or marks 
upon its effects. MRS. GRIFFITH. 

Silvius : Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe : 
Say, that you love me not ; but say not so 
In bitterness : The common executioner, 
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard, 
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, 
But first begs pardon : Will you sterner be 
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? 

Enter Rosalind, in man's attire, at a distance. 

Phebe : I would not be thy executioner; 
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. 
Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye : 
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable, 
That eyes, — that are the frail'st and softest things, 
Who shut their coward gates on atomies, — 
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers ! 
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ; 
And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee ; 
Now counterfeit to swoon ; wiry now fall down; 
Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, 
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. 
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee : 
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush 
The cicatrice and capable impressure 
Thy palm some moment keeps : but now mine eye 
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ; 
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
That can do hurt. 



SHAKESPEAR. 65 

Silvius : O dear Phebe, 
If ever, (as that ever may be near,) 
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,* 
Then shall you know the wounds invisible 
That love's keen arrows make. 

Phe. But, till that time, 
Come not thou near me : and, when that time comes, 
Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ; 
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. 

Ros. And why, I pray you ? {Advancing.'] Who might 
be your mother, 
That you insult, exult, and all at once, 
Over the wretched ? What though you have more beauty, 
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? 
Why, what means this? Why do you look came; 
I see no more in you, than in the ordinary 
Of nature's sale-work :f — Od's my little life! 
I think, she means to tangle my eyes too t — 
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it 
'Tis not your inky brows, your black-silk hair, 
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream, 
That can entame my spirits to your worship. — 
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, 
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain ? 
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her ; 
And out of you she sees herself more proper, 
Than any of her lineaments can show her. — 
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees, 
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love ; 
For I must tell you friendly in your ear, — 
Sell when you can ; you are not for all markets : 
Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer ; 
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. || 
So take her to thee, shepherd ; — fare you well. 

Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together ; 
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. 

Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall 
in love with my anger : If it be so, as fast as she answers thee 
with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. — Why look 
you so upon me ? 

* Love. 

+ i. e. Those works that nature makes up carelessly and without exact- 
ness. The allusion is to the practice of mechanics, whose work, when 
ordered, is hetter finished, than that which is made up for chance cus- 
tomers — Warburlon. 

H This isa just thought; and it would he well if it were more attended 
to. No persons have a right to censure others, who are not free from blame 
themselves. This maxim, if extended to the strictness of it, would silence 
all scandal, detraction, and reproach ; and indeed it has been often observed , 
that the most faultless persons are generally the least severe.— Mrs. Griffith. 

H 3 



66 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Phe. For no ill will I bear you. 

Ros. I pray yon, do not fall in love with me, 
For I am falser than vows made in wine : 
Besides, I like you not. 

[Exit.] 

Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of might; 
Who everlov'd, that lov'd not at first sight ? 

Sil. Sweet Phebe,— 

Phe. Ha! what say 'st thou Silvius ? 

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. 

Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. 

Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be ; 
If you do sorrow at my grief in love, 
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief 
Were both extermin'd. 

Phe. Thou hast my love ; Is not that neighbourly > 

Sil. I would have you. 

Phe. Why, that were covetousness. 
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee; 
And yet it is not, that I bear thee love : 
But since that thou canst talk of love so well, 
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 

I will endure.- 

Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere while ? 

Sil. Not very well, but 1 have met him oft. 

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 
Tis but a peevish* boy : — yet he talks well ; — 
But what care I for words ? yet words do well, 
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 
It is a pretty youth ; — not very pretty : — 
But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes him : 
He'll make a proper man : The best thing in him 
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue 
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. 
He is not tall ; yet for his years he's tall : 
His leg is but so so ; and yet 'tis well : 
There was a pretty redness in his lip ; 
A little riper and more lusty red 

Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference 
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. 
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him 
In parcels as I did, would have gone near 
To fall in love with him : but, for my part, 
I love him not, nor hate him not , and yet 
I have more cause to hate him than to love him : 
For what had he to do to chide at me ? 
He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; 

* Silly. 



SHAKESPEAR. 67 



And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me : 

I marvel, why I answer'd not again : 

But that's all one ; omittance is no quittance. 



ON EPIC AND DRAMATIC POETRY. 

There are critics who consider the Drama entitled to a higher 
rank than the Epopee. For my own part, I would rather 

" Bless the Sun, than reason how it shines:—" 

I would rather enjoy the beauties of the Epic and the Dramatic 
Muses, than oppose them to each other, and awaken controversy 
as to their relative excellencies. As the subject, however, forces 
itself upon us, and as 1 mean to touch it reverently, for, — 

" We do it wrong, being so majesiical, 
To offer it the show of violence," 

I will venture a few observations upon it. The Drama is to Epic 
Poetry, what Sculpture is to Historical Painting. It is, perhaps, 
on the whole, a severer art. It rejects many adventitious aids of 
which the Epic may avail itself. It has more unity and simplicity. 
Its figures stand out more boldly, and in stronger relief. But then 
it has no aerial background ; it has no perspective of enchantment ; 
it cannot draw so largely on the imagination of the spectator; it 
must present to the eye, and make palpable to the touch, what 
the Epic Poet may steep in the rainbow hues of Fancy, and veil, 
but with a veil of light, woven in the looms ot his Imagination. — 
The Epopee comprises narration and description, and yet must be, 
in many parts, essentially Dramatic. The Epic Poet is the Dra- 
matic Author and Actor combined. The fine characteristic speech 
which Milton puts into the mouth of Moloch, in the second book 
of " Paradise Lost," proves him to have been possessed of high 



68 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

powers for dramatic writing; and when, after the speech is con- 
cluded, the Poet adds, — 

" He ended frowning, and his look denounced 
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous 
To less than Gods : — " 

He personates the character with a power and eDergy worthy of 
the noblest Actor. I have said that the Epic Poet is the Dramatist 
and the Actor combined ; but he is more. He must not only write 
the dialogue, and create the actors who are to utter it, but he 
must also erect the stage on which they are to tread, and paint 
the scenes in which they are to appear. Still, the Drama, by the 
very circumstances which condense and circumscribe its powers, 
becomes capable of exciting a more intense aud tremendous in- 
terest. Hence there are pieces of Dramatic writing which, even 
in the perusal only, have an overwhelming power, to which Epic 
Poetry canuot attain. — Perhaps, to sum up the whole question, 
what the Epic Poet gains in expansion and variety, the Dramatic 
Poet gains in condensation and intensity. When Desdemona says 
to Othello,— 

" And yet I fear, 
When your eyes roll so ;" 

we have as vivid a portrait of the Moor's countenance, as the most 
laboured description could give us. Again, how powerfully is the 
frown on the features of the Ghost in " Hamlet" pictured to us in 
two lines: — 

" So frown'd he once, when in an angry parle, 
He smote the sledded Polack on the ice." 

Such descriptions would be meagre and unsatisfactory in Epic 
Poetry; more diffuse ones would mar the interest, and impede the 
action in the Drama. In the Drama the grand pivot upon which 
the whole moves is Action ; in Epic Poetry it is Narration. Nar- 
ration is the fitter medium for representing a grand series of 
events; and Action for exhibiting the power and progress of a pas- 



SHAKESPEAR. 69 

sion, or the consequences of an incident. — The Epic Poet takes a 
loftier flight ; the Dramatist treads with a firmer step. The one 
dazzles ; the other touches. The Epic iswowdered at ; the Drama 
is felt. We lift Milton like a conqueror above our heads ; we 
clasp Shakespear like a brother to our hearts. h. neele. 



3IACBETH,AT THE IMPORTUNITY OF HIS LADY, 
RESOLYES TO MURDER DUNCAN. 

Macbeth is full of horrnr at the thoughts of the murder of 
Duncan. He is not equal to the struggle with fate and conscience. 
He now "bends up each corporal instrument to the terrible 
feat;" at other times his heart misgives him, and he is cowed 
and abashed by his success. " The deed, no less than the at- 
temptj confounds him." His mind is assailed by the stings of 
remorse, and full of " preternatural solieitings." His speeches 
and soliloquies are dark riddles on human life, baffliug solution, 
and entangling him in their labyrinths. In thought he is absent 
and perplexed, sudden and desperate in act, from a distrust of his 
own resolution. His energy springs from the anxiety and agita- 
tion of his mind. His blindly rushing forward on the objects of 
his ambition and revenge, or his recoiling from them, equally be- 
trays the harrassed state of his feelings. This part of his charac- 
ter is admirably set off by being brought in connection with that 
of Lady Macbeth, whose obdurate strength of will and masculine 
firmness give her the ascendancy over her husband's faultering 
virtue. She at once siezes on the opportunity that offers for the 
accomplishment of all their wished-for greatness, and never 
flinches from her object till all is over. The magnitude of her 
resolution almost covers the magnitude of her guilt. She is a 
great bad woman, whom we hate, but whom we fear more than 
hate. hazlitt. 



70 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Macbeth. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere 
well 
It were done quickly : If the assassination 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, 
With his surcease, success ; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all aud the end-all here, 
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, — 
We'd jump the life to come. — But, in these cases, 
We still have judgment here ; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
To plague the inventor: This even handed justice 
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice 
To our own lips. He's here in double trust : 
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 
Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, 
Who should against his murderer shut the door, 
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
Will plead like angels, trumpet- tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off : 
And pity, like a naked new born babe, 
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, hors'd 
Upon the sightless couriers* of the air, 
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
That tears shall drown the wind. — I have no spur 
To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
Vaulting ambition, which o'er-leaps itself, 
And falls on the other. — How now, what news? 

Enter Lady Macbeth. 

Lady M. He has almost supp'd ; Why have you left thf 
chamber ? 

Macb. Hath he ask'd for me ? 

Lady M. Know you not, he has ? 

Macb. We will proceed no further in this business : 
He hath houour'd me of late ; and I have bought 
Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss. 

Lady M. Was the hope drunk, 
Wherein you dress'd yourself ? hath it slept since ? 
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
At what it did so freely ? From this lime, 
Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
To be the same in thine own act and valour, 
As thou art in desire ? Would'st thou have that 
Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, 

* Winds, sightless is invisible. 



SHAKESPEAR. 71 

And live a coward in thine own esteem ; 
Letting I dare not wait upon I would, 
Like the poor cat i'the adage ? 

Macb. Pr'ythee, peace : 
I dare do all that may become a man ; 
Who dares do more, is none. 

Lady M. What beast was it then, 
That made you break this enterprize to me? 
When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
And, to be more than what you were, you would 
Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place, 
Did then adhere,* and yet you would make both : 
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
Does unmake you. I have given suck ; and know 
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : 
I would, while it was smiling in my lace, 
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, 
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn, as you 
Have done to this. 

Macb. If we should fail, 

Lady M. We fail ! 
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 
And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep, 
(Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey 
Soundly invite him,) his two chamberlains 
Will I with wine and wasself so convince, [j 
That memory, the warder^ of the brain, 
Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason 
A limbeck only : When in swiuish sleep 
Their drenched natures lie, as in a death, 
What cannot you and I perfoim upon 
The unguarded Duncan ? what not put upon 
His spongy officers ; who shall bear the guilt 
Of our great quell ?$ 

Macb. Bring forth men-children only ! 
Por thy undaunted mettle should compose 
Nothing but males. Will it not be received, ^[ 
When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two 
Of his own chamber, and used their very daggers, 
That they have don't ? 

Lady M. Who dares receive it other, 
As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar 
Upon his death ? 

Macb. I am settled, and bend up 
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 
Away, and mock the time with fairest show : 
False face must hide what the false heart doth know. 

* In the same sense as cohere. 

t An ancient beverage of ale, apples, and honey mixed. 

M Overpower. j Sentinel. { Murder. *T Apprehended. 



72 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

THE MURDER OF DUNCAN. 

Lady M. That which halh made them drunk, hath made 
me hold : 
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire :— Hark !— Peace ! 
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, 
Which gives the stem'st good-night. He is about it : 
The doors are open : and the surfeited grooms 
Do mock their charge with snores : I have drugg'd their 

possets, 
That death and nature do contend about them, 
Whether they live, or die. 

Macb. [Within.] Who's there? — what, ho ! 

Lady M. Alack ! I am afraid they have awak'd, 
And 'tis not done ; — the attempt, and not the deed, 
Confounds us : — Hark ! — I laid their daggers ready, 
He could not miss them. — Had he not resembled 
My father as he slept, I had done't. — My husband ? 

Enter Macbeth. 

Macb. I have done the deed : — Didst thou not hear a noise ? 

Lady; M. 1 heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. 
Did ) ou not speak ? 

Macb. When ? 

Lady M. Now. 

Macb. As I descended ? 

Lady M. Ay. 

Macb. Hark! — 
Who lies i'the second chamber? 

Lady M. Donaldbain. 

Macb. This is a sorry sight. 

[Looking on his hands. 

Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 

Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, 
murder ! 
That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them : 
But they did say their prayers, and address'd them 
Again to sleep. 

Lady M. There are two lodged together. 

Macb. One cried, God bless us ! and Amen, the other; 
As* they had seen me, with these hangman's hands, 
Listening their fear — 1 could not say, Amen, 
When they did say, God bless us. 

Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 

Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen ? 
I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
Stuck in my throat. 

• As if. 



SHAKESPEAR. 73 

Lady M. These deeds must not be thought 
After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 

Macb. Me thought I heard a \oice cry, Sleep no more ! 
Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep ; 
Sleep, that knits up the ravelUd slcave* of- care, 
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
Chief nourisher in life's feast! 

Lady M. What do you mean ? 

Macb. Still it cried, Sleep no more ! to all the house : 
Glamis has murder' d sleep ,• and therefore Cawdor 
Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more ! 

Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worth y 
thane, 
You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
So brainsickly of things : — Go, get some water, 
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. — 
Why did you bring these daggers from the place r 
They must lie there : Go, carry them ; and smear 
The sleepy grooms with blood. 

Macb. I'll go no more : 
I am afraid to think what I have done ; 
Look on't again, I dare not. 

Lady M. Infirm of purpose ! 
Give me the daggers : The sleeping, and the dead, 
Are but as pictures : 'tis the eye of childhood, 
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, 
For it must seem their guilt. 

[Exit. Knocking within.] 

Macb. Whence is that knocking ? 
How is't with me, when every noise appals me ? 
What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out mine eyes ! 
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
Clean from my hand? No ; this my hand will rather 
The multitudinous seas incarnardiueyf 
Making the green — one red. 

Re-enter Lady Macbeth. 

Lady M. My hands are of your colour ; but I shame 
To wear a heart so white. [Knock.} I hear a knocking 
At the south entry : — retire we to our chamber: 
A little water clears us of this deed : 
How easy is it then ? Your constancy 
Hath left you unattended. — [Knocking.'] Hark! more 

knocking : 
Get on your nightgown, least occasion call us, 

* Sleave is wrought silk. t To incarnardine is to stain of a flesh colour. 
I 



74 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

And show us to be watchers : — Be not lost 
So poorly in your thoughts. 

Macb. To know my deed, — 'twere best not know myself. 

[Knock.] 
Wake Duncan with thy knocking ! Would thou could'st ! 



MACDUFF INFORMED OF THE MURDER OF HIS 
WIFE AND CHILDREN. 

There is an enchanting picture of deep distress in Macbeth, 
wher Macduff is represented lamenting his wife and children, in- 
humanly murdered by the tyrant. Stung to the heart with the 
news, he questions the messenger over and over; not that he 
doubted the fact, but that his heart revolted against so cruel a 
misfortune. After struggling some time with his grief, he turns 
from his wife and children to their savage butcher, and then gives 
vent to his resentment, but still with manliness and dignity. 

The whole scene is a delicious picture of human nature. One 
expression only seems doubtful; in examining the messenger, 
Macduff expresses himself thus : 

" He hath no children. — All my pretty ones? 
Did you say, all?— What all?— O hell-kite !— All? 
What, all my pretty little chickens, and their dam, 
At one fell swoop? 

Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may sometimes be used 
with a grace, where a regular simile would be intolerable ; but 
there are situations so severe and dispiriting, as not to admit even 
the slightest metaphor. It requires great delicacy of taste to de- 
termine with firmness, whether the present case be of that kind ; I 
incline to think it is ; and yet I would not willingly alter a single 
word of this admirable scene. lord kames. 



SHAKESPEAR. 75 

Macd. See, who comes here ? 

Enter Rosse. 

Malcolm. My countryman ; but yet I know him not. 

Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. 

Mal. I know him now ; Good God, betimes remove 
1 he means that make us strangers ! 

Rosse. Sir, Amen. 

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did ? 

Rosse. Alas, poor country ; 
Almost afraid to know itself! It caunot 
Be call'd our mother, but our grave : where nothing, 
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile ; 
Where sighs and groans, and shrieks that rend the air, 
Are made, not mark'd ; where violent sorrow seems 
A modern ecstacy ;* the dead mau's knell 
Is there scarce ask'd for who ; and good men's lives, 
Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
Dying, or ere they sicken. 

Macd. O relation, 
Too nice 3 and yet too true ! 

Mal. What is the newest grief ? 

Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; 
Each minute teems a new one. 

Macd. How does my wife? 

Rosse. Why, well. 

Macd. And all my children? 

Rosse. Well too. 

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace ? 

Rosse. No ; they were well at peace, when I did leave them. 

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech; How goes it ? 

Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings, 
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour 
Of many worthy fellows that were out ; 
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather. 
For that I saw the tyrant's power a-foot : 
Now is the time of help ; your eye in Scotland 
Would create soldiers, make our women fight, 
To dofff their dire distresses. 

Mal. Be it their comfort, 
We are coming thither ; gracious England hath 
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men ; 
An older and a better soldier none 
That Christendom gives out. 

Rosse. 'Would I could answer 
This comfort with the like ! But I have words, 
That would be howl'd out in the desert air, 



* Common distress of raind. t Put off. 

I 2 



76 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Where hearing should not latch* them. 

Macd. What concern they ? 
The general cause ? or is it a fee grief, f 
Due to some single breast ? 

Rosse. No mind, that's honest, 
But in it shares some woe : though the main part 
Pertains to you alone. 

Macd. If it be mine, 
Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. 

Rosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, 
Which shall possess them with the heaviest souud, 
That ever yet they heard. 

Macd. Humph ! 1 guess at it. 

Rosse. Your castle is surprizM: your wife and babes 
Savagely slaughter'd : to relate the manner, 
Were, on the qT\arry|| of these murder'd deer, 
To add the death of you. 

Mal. Merciful heaven ! 
What man ! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows ; 
Give sorrow words : the grief, that does not speak, 
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. 

Macd. My children loo ? 

Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all 
That could be found. 

Macd. And I must be from thence ! 
My wife kill'd too ? 

Rosse. I have said. 

Mal. Be comforted : 
Let's make us med'eines of our great revenge, 
To cure this deadly grief. 

Macd. He has no children. — All my pretty ones ? 
Did you say, all?— O, hell-kite !— All ? 
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, 
At one fell swoop ? 

Mal. Dispute it like a man. 

Macd. I shall do so : 
But I must also feel it as a man; 
I cannot but remember such things were, 
That were most precious to me.— Did heaven look on, 
And would not take their part ? Sinful Macduff, 
They were all struck for thee ! naught that I am, 
Not for their own demerits, but for mine, 
Fell slaughter on their souls : Heaven rest them now ! 

Mal. Be this the whetstone of your sword : let grief 
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 

Macd. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, 
And braggart with my tongue ! But, gentle heaven, 

' Catch. t A grief that has a single owner 
II The Game after it is killed. 



SHAKESPEAR. 77 

Cut short all intermission ;* front to front, 
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself; 
Within my sword's length set him ; if he 'scape, 
Heaven forgive him too ! 

Mal. This tune goes manly. 
Come, go we to the king ; our power is ready ; 
Our lack is nothing but our leave : Macbeth 
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may ;, 
The night is long, that never finds the day. 



LADY MACBETH WALKING IN HER SLEEP. 

The intrepidity of Lady Macbeth's character is so marked that we 
may well suppose no waking terrors could shake it, and in this light 
it must be acknowledged a very natural expedient to make her 
vent the agonies of her conscience in sleep. Drearrs have been a 
dramatic expedient ever since there has been a drama ; JEschylus 
recites the dieam of Clytemnestra immediately before Orestes kills 
her ; she fancies she has given birth to a dragon, — 

" This new born dragon, like an infant child 
Laid in the cradle, seem'd in want of food ; 
And in her dream she held it to her breast : 
The milk he drew was mixed with clotted blood." 

This which is done by iEschylus has been done by hundreds after 
him ; but to introduce upon the scene the very person, walking in 
sleep, and giving vent to the horrid fancies that haunt her dream, 
in broken speeches expressive of her guilt, uttered before witnesses, 
and accompanied with that natural and expressive action of wash- 
ing the blood from her defiled hands, was reserved for the original 
and bold genius of Shakespear only. It is an incident so full of 
tragic horror, so daring, and at the same time so truly character- 
istic, that it stands out-as a promineut feature in the most sublime 
drama in the world. r. Cumberland. 

* All pause 

l 3 



78 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Doctor. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive 
no truth in your report. When was it she last walked ? 

Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the field, I have 
seen her rise from her bed, throw her night-gown upon her, 
unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, 
afterwards seal it, and again return to bed ; yet all this while in a 
most fast sleep. 

Doc. A great perturbation in nature ! to receive at once the 
benefit of sleep, and to do the effects of watching. — In this 
slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and other actual perform- 
ances, what, at any time, have you heard her say ? 

Gent. That, Sir, which I will not report after her. 

Doct. You may, to me ; and 'tis most meet you should. 

Gent. Neither to you, nor any one ; having no witness to con- 
firm my speech. 

Enter Lady Macbeth, with a Taper. 

Lo you, here she comes ! This is her very guise ; and, upon my 
life, fast asleep. Observe her ; stand close. 

Doct. How came she by that light ? 

Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; 
'tis her command. 

Doct. You see, her eyes are open. 

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut. 

Doct. What is it she does now ? Look, how she rubs her 
hands. 

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus 
washing her hands; I have known her continue in this a quarter 
of an hour. 

Lady M. Yet here's a spot. 

Doct. Hark, she speaks : I will set down what comes from 
her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. 

Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say! — One; Two; 

Why, then 'tis time to do't: -Hell is murky !* — Fie, my lord, 

fie! a soldier, and afear'd? What need we fear who knows it, 
when none can call our power to account ! — Yet who would have 
thought the old man to have so much blood in him? 

Doct. Do you mark that ? 

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife; Where is she now? 

What, will these hands ne'er be clean ? — No more o'that, my 

lord, no more o'that : you mar all with this starting. 

Doct. Go to, go to ; you have known what you should not. 

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that : 
Heaven knows what she has known. 

Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes 
of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh! oh ! oh ! 

Doct. What a sight is there ! The heart is sorely charged. 



Dark. 



SHAKESPEAR. 79 

GfcNT. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, for the 
dignity of the whole body. 

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice : Yet I have known 
those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in 
their beds. 

Lady. M. Wash your hands, put on your night-gown ; look 
not so pale:— I tell you yet again Banquo's buried; he cannot 
come out of his grave. 

Doct. Even so ? 

Lady M. To bed, to bed ; there's knocking at the gate. — Come, 
come, come, come, give me your hand ; What's done, cannot be 
undone ; To bed, to bed, to bed. 

[Exit Lady Macbeth.] 

Doct. Will she go now to bed ? 

Gent. Directly. 

Doct. Foul whisperings are abroad: Unnatural deeds 
Do breed unnatural troubles : Infected minds 
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. 
More needs she the divine, than the physician. — » 
Look after her ; 

Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 
And still keep eyes upon her: — So, good night: 
My mind she's mated,* and amaz'd my sight : 
I think, but dare not speak. 

Gent. Good night, good doctor. 



MACBETH INFORMED OF THE APPROACH OF 
THE ENGLISH ARMY. 

In the mean time, Malcolm purchased such favour at King 
Edward's hands, that old Siward, Earl of Northumberland, was 
appointed with ten thousand men to go with him into Scotland, 
to support him in this enterprise, for the recovery of his right. 
After these news were spread abroad in Scotland, the nobles drew 
into two several factions, the one taking part with Macbeth, and 
the other with Malcolm. — But Macbeth had such confidence in 
bis prophecies, that he believed he should never be vanquished, 
till Birnam Wood were brought to Dunsinane ; nor yet to be 
slain with any man, that should be or was bom of any woman, 

* Confounded 



80 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Malcolm following hastily after Macbeth, came the night before 
the battle unto Birnam Wood, and when his army had rested 
awhile there to refresh them, he commanded every man to get a 
bough of some tree or other of that wood in his hand as big as he 
might bear, and to march forth therewith in such wise, that on the 
next morrow they might come closely and without sight in this 
manner within view of his enemies. On the morrow when Mac- 
beth beheld them coming in this sort, he first marvelled what the 
matter meant, but in the end remembered himself that the pro- 
phecy which he had heard long before that time, of the coming 
of Birnam Wood to Dunsinane Castle, was likely to be now ful- 
filled. Nevertheless, he brought his men in order of battle, 
and exhorted them to do valiantly, howbeit his enemies had scarce- 
ly cast from them their boughs, when Macbeth perceiving their 
numbers, betook him straight to flight, whom Macduff pursued 
with great hatred even till he came unto Lunfaonain, where Mac- 
beth perceiving that Macduff was hard at his back, leaped beside 
his horse, saying, " thou traitor, what meaneth it that thou 
shouldest thus in vain follow me, that am not appointed to be 
slain by any creature that is born of woman, come on therefore, 
and receive thy reward which thou hast deserved for thy pains,' r 
and therewithal he lifted up his sword thinking to have slain him.. 
But Macduff quickly avoiding from his horse, ere he came at him, 
answered (with his naked sword in his hand) saying, " it is true- 
Macbeth, and now shall thy insatiable cruelty have an end, for I 
am even he that thy wizards have told thee of, who was never 
born of my mother, but ripped out of her womb :" therewithal he 
stepped unto him, and slew him in the place. Then cutting his 
head from his shoulders, he set it upon a pole, and brought it unto 
Malcolm. This was the end of Macbeth, after he had reigned 
seventeen years (from 1040 to 1057) over the Seottishmen. 

HOLINSHED. 



SHAKESPEAR. 81 

Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants. 

Macb. Bring me no reports ; let then* fly all ; 
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinaue, 
1 cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm ? 
Was he not born of woman ? The spirits that know 
All mortal consequents, pronounc'd me thus : 
Fear not, Macbeth : no man, that's horn of woman, 

Shall e'er have power on thee. Then fly, false thanes, 

And mingle with the English epicures : 
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, 
Shall never sag* with doubt, nor shake with fear 

Enter a Servant. 

Thon cream-fac'd loon !f 

Where got'st thou that goose look? 

Serv. There is ten thousand 

Macb. Geese, villain ? 

Serv. Soldiers, Sir. 

Macb. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, 
Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch ?J| 
Death of thy soul ! those linen cheeks of thine 
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face ? 

Serv. The English force, so please you. 

Macb. Take thy face hence. — Seyton! — I am sick at heart. 
When I behold — Seyton, I say ! — This push 
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now. 
I have liv'd long enough : my way of life 
Is falPn into the sear,t the yellow leaf: 
Aud that which should accompany old age, 
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
I must not look to have ; but, in their stead, 
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath, 
Which the poor heart would fain deny, but dare not, 
Seyton ! 

Enter Seyton. 

Sey. What is your gracious pleasure ? 

Macb. What news more ? 

Sey. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. 

Macb. IT1 fight, till from my bones my flesh be hack'd. 
Give me my armour. 

Sey. 'Tis not needed yet. 

Macb. I'll put it on. 
Send out more horses, skirr§ the country round ; 
Hang those that talk of fear. — Give me miue armour. 
How does your patient, doctor? 



ink t Base fellow. i| An appellation ot coutenn't 

t Dry. ] Scour. 



82 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Doct. Not so sick, my lord, 
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, 
That keep her from her rest. 

Macb. Cure her of that : 
Caust thou not minister to a mind diseas'd ; 
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; 
Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; 
And, with some sweet oblivious antidote, 
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff, 
Which weighs upon the heart ? 

Doct. Therein the patient 
Must minister to himself. 

Macb. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it. — 
Come, put mine armour on ; give me my staff: — 
Seyton, send out. — Doctor, the thanes fly from me : — 
Come, Sir, despatch: — If thou could'st, doctor, cast 
The water of my land, find her disease, 
And purge it to a sound and pristine health, 
I would applaud thee to the very echo, 
That should applaud again. — Pull't off, I say. — 
What rhubarb, senna ; or what purgative drug, 
Would scour these English hence! — Hearest thou of them? 

Doct. Ay, my good lord ; your royal preparation 
Makes us hear something. 

Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; 
The cry is still, They come : Our castle's strength 
Will laugh a siege to scorn : here let them lie, 
Till famine and the ague eat them up : 
Were they not forc'd with those that should be our's, 
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, 
And beat them backward home. What is that noise ? 

{A cry within, of Women.] 

Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord. 

Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears : 
The time has been, my senses would have cool'd 
To hear a night- shriek ; and my fell* of hair 
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir 
As life were in't : I have supp'd full with horrors : 
Direness, familiar to my slaught'rous thoughts, 
Cannot once start me. — Wherefore was that cry ? 

Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead. 

Macb. She should have died hereafter ; 
There would have been a time for such a word. — 
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
To the last syllable of recorded time; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 

■* Skin. 



SHAKESPEAR. 83 

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player, 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 

Signifyiug nothing. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Thou com'st to use thy tongue ; thy story quickly. 

Mess. Gracious my lord, 
I shall report that which I say I saw, 
But know not how to do it, 

Macb. Well, say, Sir. 

Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hills, 
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
The wood began to move. 

Macb. Liar and slave ! 

[Striking him.~\ 

Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if 't be not so : 
Within this three mile may you see it coming ; 
I say, a moving grove. 

Macb. If thou speak'st false, 
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, 
Till famine cling* thee : if thy speech be sooth, 
I care not if thou dost for me as much. — 
I pull in resolution ; and begin 
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend, 
That lies like truth : Fear not, till Birnam wood 
Do come to Dunsinane ; — and now a wood 

Comes toward Dunsinane. — Arm, arm, and out ! 

If this which he avouches, does appear, 

There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here, 

I 'gin to be a- weary of the sun, 

And wish the estate o'the world were now undone. — 

Ring the alarum bell : — Blow, wind ! come, wrack ! 

At least we'll die with harnessf on our back. 



THE KING AND QUEEN'S REMONSTRANCE 
WITH HAMLET. 

King. Now, cousin Hamlet, and my son, 

How is it, that the clouds still hang on you ? 

' Shrivel. +• Armour. 



SHAKESPEAR. 84 

Ham. Not so, my lord. I am too much i'the sun. 

Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nightly colour off, 
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. 
Do not, for ever, with thy veiled lids* 
Seek for thy noble father in the dust : 
Thou know'st 'tis common ; all that live must die j 
Passing through nature to eternity. 

Ham. Ay, madam, it is common. 

Queen. If it be, 
Why seems it so particular with thee ? 

Ham. Seems, madam ! nay, it is ; I know not seems. 
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, 
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, 
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, 
That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem, 
For they are actions that a man might play : 
But I have that within, which passeth show. — 
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. 

King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, 
To give these mourning duties to your lather: 
But, you must know, your father lost a father ; 
That father lost his ; and the survivor bound 
In filial obligation, for some term 
To do obsequious sorrow : but to persever 
In obstinate condolement, is a course 
Of impious stubbornness; 'tis unmanly grief: 
It shows a will most incorrect to heaven ; 
A heart unfortified, or mind impatient ; 
An understanding simple and unschool'd ; 
For what we know must be, and is as common 
As any the most vulgar thing to sense, 
Why should we, in our peevish opposition, 
Take it to heart ? Fie ! 'Tis a fault to heaven. 
A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, 
To reason most absurd ; whose common theme 
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, 
From the first corse, till he that died to-day, 
This must be so. We pray you, throw to earth 
This uuprevailing woe ; and think of us 
As of a father : For let the world take note, 
You are the most immediate to our throne ; 
And with no less nobility of love, 
Than that which dearest father bears his son, 
Do I impart toward you. For your intent 
Tn going back to school in Wittenberg, 

* Lowering eyes. 



SHAKESPEAR. 85 

It is most retrograde* to our desire ; 
And, we beseech you, bend you to remain 
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye, 
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. 

Queen. Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet ; 
I pray thee, stay with us ; go not to Wittenberg. 

Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam. 

King. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply ; 
Be as ourself in Denmark. — Madam, come ; 
This gentle and unforc'd accord of Hamlet 
Sits smiling to my heart : in grace whereof, 
No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, 
But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, 
And the king's rousef the heaven shall bruitj again, 
Re-speaking earthly thunder. 



THE GHOST'S APPEARANCE TO HORATIO. 

The introduction to the entrance of the Ghost in Hamlet, shows 
infinite taste and judgement. Just as our feelings are powerfully 
excited by the narration of its appearance on the foregoing evening, 
the speaker is interrupted by "the majesty of buried Denmark" 
once more standing before him : — 

" The bell then beatiug one,— 

But soft, break off !— look where it comes again !" 

then the solemn adjurations to it to speak ; the awful silence which 
it maintains; the impotent attempts to strike it; and the exclam- 
ation of Horatio, when it glides away 

" We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
To offer it the show of violence," 

present to us that shadowy and indistinct, but at the same time, 
appalling and fearfully interesting picture, which constitutes one of 
the highest efforts of the sublime. The interview with Hamlet is a 
master-piece. The language of this awful visitant is admirably 

5 Contrary. t Draught. t Report. 

K 



86 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

characteristic. It is not of this world. It savours of the last long 
resting place of mortality ; " of worms, and graves, and epitaphs." 
It evinces little of human feeling and frailty. Vengeance is the 
only passion which has survived the wreck of the body ; and it is 
this passion which has burst the cerements of the grave, and sent 
its occupant to revisit " the glimpses of the moon." Its discourse 
is of murder, incest, suffering and revenge ; and gives us awful 
glimpses of that prison house, the details of which are not permit, 
ted to " ears of flesh and blood." Whether present or absent, we 
are continually reminded of this perturbed Spirit. When on the 
stage, " it harrows us with fear and wonder;" and when absent, we 
see it in its influence on the persons of the drama, especially Ham- 
let; The sensations of horror and revenge which at first possess 
the mind of this Prince ; then his tardiness and irresolution, which 
are chided by the re-appearance of the Spectre ; and his fears 
notwithstanding all the evidence to the contrary, that it may be an 
evil spirit, which, — 

*' Out of his weakness and his melancholy, 
Abuses him to damn him," 

form one of the most affecting and interesting pictures in the 
whole range of Shakespear's dramas. H. neele. 

Horatio. What, has this thing appear'd again to-night ? 

Bernardo. I have seen nothing. 

Marcellus. Horatio says, 'tis but our fantasy; 
And will not let belief take hold of him, 
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us : 
Therefore I have entreated him, along 
With us to watch the minutes of this night, 
That, if again this apparition come, 
He may approve* out eyes and speak to it. 

Hor. Tush ! tush ! 'twill not appear. 

Ber. Sit down awhile ; 
And let us once again assail your ears, 
That are so fortified against our story, 
What we two nights have seen. 

Hor. Well, sit we down, 
And let us hear Bernardo speak of this. 

" Make good or establish 



SHAKESPEAR. 87 

Ber. Last night of all, 
When yon same star, that's westward from the pole, 
Had made his course to illume that part of heaven 
Where now it burns, Marcellus, and myself, 
The bell then beating one, — 

Mar. Peace, break thee off — look, where it comes again i 

Enter Ghost. 

Ber. In the same figure like the king that's dead. 

Mar. Thou art a scholar, speak to it, Hoiatio. 

Ber. Looks it not like the king ? mark it, Horatio. 

Hor. Most like : — It harrows me with fear, and wonder. 

Ber. It would be spoke to. 

Mar. Speak to it, Horatio. 

Hor. What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, 
Together with that fair and warlike form 
In which the majesty of buried Denmark 
Did sometimes march ? — By heaven I charge thee, speak 1 

Mar. It is offended. 

Ber. See! it stalks away. 

Hor. Stay j speak : speak I charge thee, speak. 

{Exit Ghost.] 

Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer. 

Ber. How now, Horatio ? you tremble, and look pale : 
Is not this something more than fantasy ? 
What think you of it ? 

Mar. Is it not like the king ? 

Hor. As thou art to thyself : 
Such was the very armour he had on. 
When he the ambitious Norway combated : 
So frown'd he once, when, in an angry parle,* 
He smote the sleddedf Polackj; on the ice. 
'Tis strange. 

Mar. Thus, twice before, and jump|| at this dead hour, 
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. 

Hor. In what particular thought to work, 1 know not ; 
But, in the gross and scope of mine opinion, 
This bodes some strange eruption to our state — 

Re-enter Ghost. 
But. soft ; behold ! lo, where it comes again ! 
I'll cross it, though it blast me. — Stay, illusion ! 
If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, 
Speak to me: 

If there be any good thing to be done, 
That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, 



•Dispute. t Sledge, i An inhabitant of Poland. II Just. 

k2 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Speak to me : 

If thou art privy to thy country's fate, 

Which, happily, foreknowing, may avoid, 

O, speak ! 

Or, if thou hast uphoarded in thy life 

Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, 

For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, 

[Cock crows.} 
Speak of it: — stay, and speak. — Stop it, Marcellus. 

Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partizan ? 

Hon. Do, if it will not stand. 

Ber. 'Tis here ' 

Hor. 'Tis here ! 

Mar. 'Tis gone ! 

[Exit Ghost.] 
We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
To offer it the show of violence ; 
For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 
And our vain blows malicious mockery. 

Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. 

Hor. And then it started like a guilty thing 
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, 
The cock, that is the trumpet of the morn, 
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
Awake the god of day ; and, at his warning, 
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, 
The extravagant and erring* spirit hies 
To his confine : and of the truth herein 
This present object made probation.f 

Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
No fairy tales, nor witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 

Hor. So I have heard, and do in part believe it. 
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill : 
Break we our watch up ; and, by my advice, 
Let us impart what we have seen to-night 
Unto young Hamlet : for, upon my life, 
This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. 

* Wandering. + Proof. 



SHAKESPEAR. 89 

THE GHOST INCITES HAMLET TO REVENGE 
HIS MURDER. 

Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me ? Speak ; I'll go no fur- 
ther. 
Ghost. Mark me. 
Ham. I will. 

Ghost. My hour is almost come, 
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames 
Must render up myself. 
Ham. Alas, poor ghost ! 

Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing 
To what I shall unfold. 

Ham. Speak, I am bound to hear. 
Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear. 
Ham. What? 

Ghost. I am thy father's spirit ; 
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night ; 
And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires,* 
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, 
Are burn'd and purg'd away. But that I am forbid 
To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young blood ; 
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ; 
Thy kuotted and combined locks to part, 
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : 
But this eternal blazonf must not be 
To ears of flesh and blood : — List, list, O list ! — 

If thou didst ever thy dear father love, 

Ham. O heaven ! 

Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. 
Ham. Murder? 

Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is ; 
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. 

Ham. Haste me to know it ^ that I, with wings as swift 
As meditation, or the thought of love, 
May sweep to my revenge. 
Ghost. I find thee apt ; 
And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed 
That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 
Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear ; 
'Tis given out, that sleeping in mine orchard,^ 
A serpent stung me ; so the whole ear of Denmark- 
Is by a forged process of my death 



This is a Romish purgatory, 
t Displaj . + Garden. 

k3 



90 THE POETICAL REVIEW, 

Rankly abus'd : but know, thou noble youth, 
The serpent that did! sting thy father's life, 
Now wears his crown. 

Ham. O, my prophetic soul! my uncle f 
Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, 
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts, 
(O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power 
So to seduce !) won to his shameful lust 
The will of my most seeming virtuous- queen r 
O, Hamlet, what a falling-off was there? 
From me, whose love was of that dignity, 
That it went hand in hand pven with the vow 
I made to her in marriage j and to decline 
Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor 
To those of mine ! 

But virtue, as it never will be mov r d, 
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven j 
So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd, 
Will sate* itself in a celestial bed, 
And prey on garbage. 

But, soft ! methinks I scent the morning air ; 
Brief let me be : — Sleeping within mine orchard.. 
My custom always of the afternoon, 
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, 
With juice of cursed hebenonf in a vial, 
And in the porches of mine ears did pour 
The leperous distilment ; whose effect 
Holds such an enmity with blood of man, 
That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through 
The natural gates and alleys of the body ; 
And, with a sudden vigour, it doth posset 
And curd, like eager droppings into milk, 
The thin aud wholesome blood : so did it mine. 
Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, 
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatch'd : $ 
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, 
Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd : |j 



* Satiate. t Henbane. % Bereft. 

II This line, the subject of so much criticism and controversy, reads as it 
generally stands both harshly and unintelligibly ; nor am I at all satisfied 
with any of its amended readings, that I have yet met with — Housel, or 
Housil, is an obsolete word in Chaucer to give or receive the Sacrament— I 
therefore conceive the line to have been wiittcn originally thus — 

" Unhousel'd, unanointed, and unknell'd;" 
that is, cut off without receiving the last sacrament, without the grace of 
extreme unction beingadministered, and without a passing knell, to proclaim 
his departure, and call on every one within its sound (as was its original de- 
sign) to pray for the peace of his departing soul. These were all affecting 



SHAKESPEAR. 91 

No reckoning made, but sent to my account 
With all my imperfections on my head. 

Ham. O horrible ! O horrible ! most horrible ! 

Ghost. If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not ; 
Let not the royal bed of Denmark be 
A couch for luxury and damned incest. 
But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act, 
Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive 
Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, 
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, 
To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once ! 
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, 
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire : 
Adieu, adieu, adieu ! remember me. [Exit.'] 

Ham. O all you host of heaven ! O earth ! What else ? 
And shall I couple hell ? — O fie ! — Hold, hold, my heart ; 
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, 
But bear me stiffly up 1 — Remember thee ? 
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat 
In this distracted globe.* Remember thee ? 
Yea, from the table of my memory 
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, 
All sawsf of books, all forms, all pressures past, 
That youth and observation copied there ; 
And thy commandment all alone shall live 
Within the book and volume of my brain, 
Unmix'd with baser matter. 



HENRY IV. DEMANDS THE PRISONERS OF 
HOTSPUR. 

As Glendower committed devastations promiscuously on all the 
English, he infested the estate of the Earl of March,! an( * s ^ r 
Edmund Mortimer, uncle to that nobleman, led out the retainers 
of the family, and gave battle to the Welsh chieftain : his troops 

circumstances according to the superstition of the age when Shakespear sup- 
posed Hamlet and his father to have lived. With such an exposition the 
text is perfectly clear and intelligible.—/. F. Pennie. 

* Head. t Sayings, sentences. 
% Henry IV was weanng the crown which, by hereditary right, belonged 
to this Earl, Edmund Mortimer. His sister Ann's grandson was Edward 
lV.-[Edl 



92 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

were routed, and he was taken prisoner. At the same time the 
Earl himself, who had been allowed to retire to his castle of Wig ■ 
more, and who, though a mere boy, took the field with his follow - 
ers, fell also into Glendower's hands, and was carried by him into 
Wales. As Henry dreaded and hated all the family of March, he 
allowed the Earl to remain in captivity ; and though that young 
nobleman was nearly allied to the Percies, to whose assistance he 
himself owed his crown, he refused to the Earl of Northumber- 
land permission to treat of his ransom with Glendower. 

In the subsequent season, Archibald Earl of Douglas, at the 
head of 12,000 men, and attended by many of the principal nobi- 
lity of Scotland, made an irruption into England, and committed 
devastations on the northern counties. On his return home, he 
was overtaken by the Percies at Homeldon, on the borders of 
England, and a fierce battle ensued, where the Scots were com- 
pletely routed. Douglas himself was taken prisoner; as was 
Mordac Earl of Fife, son of the Duke of Albany, and nephew of 
the Scottish King, with the Earls of Angus, Murray, and Orkney, 
and many others of the gentry and nobility. When Henry re- 
ceived intelligence of this victory, he sent the Earl of Northum- 
berland orders not to ransom his prisoners, which that nobleman 
regarded as his right by the laws of war received in that age. 
The King intended to detain them, that he might be able, by their 
means, to make an advantageous peace with Scotland ; but by 
this policy he gave disgust to the family of Percy. HUME. 



The stern authority the King assumes on Hotspur's disobedience 
to his commands, could not fail to inflame a warm young hero 
flushed with recent victory, and elate with the consciousness of 
having so well defended a crown, which his father and uncle had in 
a manner conferred. As Shakespear designed Percy should be an 
interesting character, his disobedience to the King, in regard to 



SHAKESPEAR. 93 

the prisoners, is mitigated by his pleading the unfitness of the person 
and unfavourableness of the occasion to urge him on the subject. 
To this effeminate courtier, says he 

■' I then, all smarting' with my wounds being cold, 
Out of my grief and my impatieuce 
To be so pester'J with a popinjay, 
Answer'd neglectingly — I know not what." 

Thus has the poet artfully taken from the rebel the hateful crimes 
of premeditated revolt and deep laid treachery. He is hurried by 
an impetuosity of soul out of the sphere of obedience, and, like 
a comet, though dangerous to the general system, is still an object 
of admiration and wonder to every beholder. It is marvellous, 
that Shakespear, from bare chronicles, coarse history, and tradi- 
tional tales, could thus extract the wisdom and caution of the 
politician Henry, and catch the fire of the martial spirit of Hot- 
spur. His misdemeanors rise so naturally out of his temper, and 
that temper is so noble, that we are almost as much interested for 
him as for a more virtuous character. 

" His trespass may be well forgot, 

It hath th' excuse of youth and heat of blood, 

And an adopted name of privilege, 

An hair-brain'd Hotspur govern' d by a spleen." 

The great aspiring soul of Hotspur bears out rebellion : it seems, 
in him, to flow from an uncontrollable energy of soul, born to 
give laws, too potent to receive them. In every scene he appears 
with the same animation ; he is always that Percy — 

" Whose spirit lent a fire 
Even to the dullest peasant in the camp, 
Led ancient lords and reverend bishops on 
To bloody Dattles, and to bruising arms." 

MRS. MONTAGU. 



04 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

King Henry, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, .Sir 
Walter Blunt, and others. 

K. Hen. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, 
Unapt to stir at these indignities, 
And you have found me ; for accordingly, 
You tread upon my patience ; but, be sure, 
I will from henceforth rather be myself, 
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition ;* 
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, 
And therefore lost that title of respect, 
Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud. 

Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves 
The scourge of greatness to be used on it ; 
And that same greatness too which our own bands 
Have holp to make so portly. 

Norih. My lord, — 

K. Hen. Worcester, get thee gone, for I see danger 
And disobedience in thine eye ; O, Sir, 
Your presence is too bold aud peremptory, 
And majesty might never yet endure 
The moody frontierf of a servant brow. 
You have good leave* to leave us; when we need 
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. — 

[Exit Worcester. 
You were about to speak. [To North. 

North. Yea, my good lord. 
Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded, 
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, 
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied 
As is deliver'd to your majesty : 
Either envy, therefore, or misprison 
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son: 

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 
But, I remember, when the fight was done, 
When I was dry with rage, and extreme toil, 
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword 
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd, 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd, 
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest home ; 
He was perfumed like a milliner ; 
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
A pouncet-box,|| which ever and anon 
He gave his nose, and took't away again ; — 
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, 
Took it in snuff:— and still he smil'd, and talk'd ; 
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 



* Disposition. t Forehead. % Ready assent. 

II A small box for musk and other perfumes. 



SHAKESPEAR. 95 

He call'd them- — untaught knaves, unmannerly, 

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 

Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 

With many holiday and lady terms 

He question'd me ; among the rest demanded 

My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf. 

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, 

To be so pester'd with a popinjay,* 

Out of my grieff and my impatience, 

Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what; 

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad, 

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman, 

Of guns, and drums, and wounds, 

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth 

Was parmaceti, for an inward bruise ; 

And that it was great pity, so it was, 

That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd 

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

Which many a good tall X fellow had destroy 'd 

So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns, 

He would himself have been a soldier. 

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 

I answer'd indirectly, as I said ; 

And, I beseech you, let not this report 

Come current for an accusation. 

Betwixt my love and your high majesty. 

Blunt. The circumstance consider'd, good my lord, 
Whatever Harry Percy then hath said, 
To such a person, and in such a place, 
At such a time, with all the rest re-told, 
May reasonably die, and never rise 
To do him wrong, or any way impeach 
What then he said, so he unsay it now. 

K. Hen. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners, 
But with proviso, and exception, — 
That we, at our own charge, shall ransom straight 
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer ; 
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd 
The lives of those that he did lead to fight 
Against the great magician, damn'd Glendower ; 
Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March 
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then 
Be emptied, to redeem a traitor home? 
Shall we buy treason ? and indent|| with fears, 
When they have lost and forfeited themselves ? 
No, on the barren mountains let him starve ; 



Parrot. + Pain. t Brave. II Sign an indenture. 



96 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

For I shall never hold that man my friend, 
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost 
To ransom home revolted Mortimer. 

Hot. Revolted Mortimer ! 
He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, 
But by the chance of war : To prove that true, 
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, 
Those mouthed wounds which valiantly he took, 
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank, 
In single opposition, hand to hand, 
He did confound the best part of an hour 
In changing hardiment* with great Glendower : 
Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink,f 
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood; 
Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, 
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. 
Never did bare and rotten policy 
Colour her working with such deadly wounds ; 
Nor never could the noble Mortimer 
Receive so many, and all willingly : 
Then let him not be slander'd with revolt. 

K. Hen. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him 
He never did encounter with Glendower : 
I tell thee, 

He durst as well have met the devil alone, 
As Owen Glendower for an enemy. 
Art not ashamed ? But, Sirrah, henceforth 
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer : 
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, 
Or you shall hear in such a kind from me 
As will displease you. — My lord Northumberland, 
We license your departure with your son : — 
Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it. 

[Exeunt King Henry, Blunt, and Train.] 
Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them, 
I will not send them : — I will after straight, 
And tell him so ; for I will ease my heart, 
Although it be with hazard of my my head. 



* Hardiness. 
+ When any two knights had fought so long as to be fatigued, they fairly 
and easily departed, and sat themselves down by the side of a stream and 
took off their helmets. On being refreshed they donned their armour, and 
returned to the fight.— Mills's History of Chivalry .—[Ed.] 



SHAKESPEAR. 97 

THE DEATH OF HUMPHREY DUKE OF 
GLOUCESTER. 

The Queen,* the Cardinal,! ana " Suffolk,]: thinking they might now 
attempt and execute anything with impunity, determined to rid 
themselves of their most formidable adversary the Duke of Glou- 
cester. || The last parliament had been so obsequious, that they 
seem to have imagined they could procure his legal condemnation. 
With this view a parliament was summoned to meet at St. Ed- 
mundsbury, February 10, 1447. The Duke, dreading no danger, 
«ame from his castle of the Devizes, with a small retinue, to the 
place appointed. At the opening of the parliament every thing 
was transacted in the usual form, and nothing appeared to excite 
suspicion. But on the next day, the Lord Beaumont, constable of 
England, attended by the Duke of Buckingham, and several other 
peers of Suffolk's party, arrested and imprisoned the Duke of 
Gloucester, seizing at the same time all his attendants, and com- 
mitting them to different prisons. The courtiers gave out, that 
the Duke had formed a conspiracy to kill the king, and place him- 
self on the throne ; to deliver his duchess from prison and make 
her Queen of England ; and that he was to be immediately 
brought to trial for high treason. But finding that this impro- 
bable tale, of which they could produce no evidence, met with no 
credit, they changed their plan, and resolved to dispatch him pri- 
vately, rather than bring him to a public trial. Accordingly, some 
time after his commitment, he was one morning found dead in 
his bed, though he had been in perfect health on the preceding 
evening. His dead body, which had no marks of violence upon 
it, was exposed to the view of the parliament and of the people, 
to persuade them that he had died a natural death. But in this 
they had but little success ; for though the several reports that 
were circulated concerning the manner of his death were probably 



* Margaret of Anjou, Queen of Henry VI. 

t Cardinal Beaufort, brother to Henry IV. 

i William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk. 

!! Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, son of Henry IV. and uncle to Henry VI. 



98 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

no better than mere conjectures, it was universally believed that 
he had fallen a victim to the malice aud cruelty of his three capi 
tal enemies; who on that account became the objects of public 
hatred. One of the most inveterate of these enemies, the rich, 
cunning, and ambitious Cardinal of Winchester, did not long sur- 
vive him, dying April 11, in great horror, and bitterly reproach- 
ing his riches, because they could not prolong his Life. 

Henry's History of Great Britain 

Warwick. It is reported, mighty sovereign, 
That good duke Humphrey traitorously is murder'd 
By Suffolk and the cardinal Beaufort's means, 
The commons, like an angry hive of bees, 
That want their leader, scatter up and down, 
And care not whom they sting in his revenge. 
Myself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny, 
Until they hear the order of his death. 

K. Hen. That he is dead, good Warwick, 'tis too true; 
But how he died, God knows, not Henry. 

The folding Doors of an inner Chamber are thrown open, and 
Gloster is discovered lying dead in his Bed. 

War. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. 

K. Hen. That is to see how deep my grave is made : 
For, with his soul, fled all my worldly solace; 
For seeing him, I see my life in death.* 

War. As surely as my soul intends to live 
With that dread King that took our state upon him 
To free us from his Father's wrathful curse, 
I do believe that violent hands were laid 
Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. 

Suffolk. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue 1 
What instance gives lord Warwick for his vow ? 

War. See, how the blood is settled in his face ! 
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, t 
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless, 
Being all descended to the labouring heart ; 
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, 
Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy ; 
Which with the heart there cools and ne'er returneth 
To blush and beautify the cheek again. 
But, see, his face is black, and full of blood ; 
His eye-balls farther out than when he liv'd, 

* i. e. I see my life destroyed or endangered by his death. 

i A body become inanimate in the common course of nature j to which 

violence has not brought a timeless end. 



SHAKESPEAR. 99 

Staring full ghastly like a strangled man : 
His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling ; 
His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd 
And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued. 
Look on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking ; 
His well-proportioned beard made rough and rugged, 
Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodg'd. 
It cannot be, but he was murder' d here ; 
The least of all these signs were probable. 

Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death ? 
Myself, and Beaumont, had him in protection ; 
And we, I hope, Sir, are no murderers. 

War. But both of you were vow'd duke Humphrey's foes ; 
And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep : 
'Tis like you would uot feast him like a friend ; 
And 'tis well seen he found an enemy. 

Q. Mar. Then you, belike suspect these Noblemen 
As guilty of duke Humphrey's timeless death. 

War. Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh, 
And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, 
But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter ? 
Who find's the partridge in the puttock's nest, 
But may imagine how the bird was dead, 
Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ? 
Even so suspicious is this tragedy. 

Q. Mar. Are you the butcher, Suffolk ; where's your knife ? 
Is Beaufort term'd a kite ? where are his talons? 

Sur. I wear no knife, to slaughter sleeping men; 
But here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease. 
That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart, 
That slanders me with murder's crimson badge : 
Say, if thou dar'st, proud lord of Warwickshire, 
That I am faulty in duke Humphrey's death. 

War. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him ? 

Q. Mar. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, 
Nor cease to be au arrogant controller, 
Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. 

War. Madam, be still : with reverence may I say, 
For every word you speak in his behalf, 
Is slander to your royal dignity. 

Suf. Blunt- witted lord, ignoble in demeanor; 
If ever lady wrong'd her lord so much, 
Thy mother took into her blameful bed 
Some stern untutor'd churl, and noble stock 
Was graft with crab- tree slip ; whose fruit thou art, 
And never of the Nevils' noble race. 

War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee, 
And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, 
Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames, 
And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild, 
L 2 



KX) THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

I would, false murdeious coward, on thy knee r 
Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech : 
And, after all this fearful homage done, 
Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell, 
Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men ! 

Suf. Thou shalt be wakisg, while I shed thy blood, 
If from this presence thou dar'st go with me. 

War. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence : 
Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee, 
And do some service to duke Humphrey's ghost. 

[Exeunt Suffolk and Warwick. ]. 

K. Hen. What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted ? 
Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just ; 
And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, 
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 



THE DEATH OF CARDINAL BEAUFORT. 

We owe to Hall an account of Cardinal Beaufort's death-bed 
feelings, which, coming from his own chaplain, may be considered 
as authentic. As he lay upon that pillow from which be was 
never to rise in this world, he was heard to exclaim, " Why 
should I die, having so much riches ? If the whole realm would 
save my life, I am able, either by policy to get it, or by riches to 
buy it. Fie ! will not death be hindered ? nor will money do nothing ? 
When my nephew of Bedford died, I thought myself half up the 
wheel: but when I saw mine other nephew of Gloucester de- 
ceased, then I thought myself able to be equal with kings; and 
so thought to increase my treasure, in hope to have worn a triple 
crown. But I see now the world faileth me ; and so I am de- 
ceived. I pray you all to pray for me."* 

The end of those who were concerned in the arrest, if not in 
the murder, of the Duke of Gloucester, was peculiarly unhappy. 
The Duke of Somerset, his nephew, in less than twelve months 

" That he expired in the agonies of despair, is a fiction, which we owe 
to the imagination of Shakespear: from an eyewitness we learn that dur- 
ing a lingering illness, he devoted most of his time to religious exercises. — 
Lingard.— [Ed.~] 



SHAKESPEAR. 101 

afterwards, committed suicide because that courtly favour waned, 
which, by his co-operation with its worst measures, he had sought 
to secure. The Duke of Suffolk perished violently. The Duke 
of Buckingham was wounded in the first, and killed in the third 
battle of the civil war, in which Lord Beaumont fell ; and the 
most distinguished other members of the administration were mur- 
dered by a future insurgent mob. The Queen herself, so far from 
profiting by it, found all her ambitious hopes defeated by its oc- 
currence. Crime usually disappoints the hope that adopts it. 
Sharon Turner's History of England during the Middle Ages . 

King Henry, Salisbury, Warwick, and others. — The Car- 
dinal in Bed ; Attendants with him. 

K. Hen. How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy 

sovereigu. 
Car. If thou be'st death, I'll give thee England's treasure, 
Euough to purchase such another island, 
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. 

K. Hen. Ah ! what a sie;n it is of evil life, 
When death's approach is seen so terrible ! 

War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. 
Car. Bring me uuto my trial when you will. 
Died he not in his bed ? where should he die ? 
Can I make men live, whe'r they will or no ? 
Oh ! torture me no more, I will confess. — 
Alive again ? Then show me where he is ; 
I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him. — 
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. — 
Comb down his hair ; look ! look ! it stands upright, 
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul ! — 
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary 
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. 

K. Hen. O thou eternal Mover of the heavens, 
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch ! 
O beat away the busy meddling fiend, 
That lays strong siege upon this wretch's soul, 
And from his bosom purge this black despair ! 
War. See how the pangs of death do make him grin. 
Sal. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably. 
K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be ! 
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, 
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. — 
He dies, and makes no sign ; O God, forgive him ! 
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. 

l3 



102 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.- 
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close ; 
And let us all to meditation. 



RICHARD III. INFORMED OF RICHMOND'S 
APPROACH TO CLAIM THE CROWN. 

No one gave the King more anxiety than Lord Stanley, a nobleman 
of extensive influence in Cheshire and Lancashire. On the one hand 
he had hitherto served Richard with unwearied zeal : on the other 
he had married the mother of the pretender to the crown. To 
attach him more firmly to the royal interests, the king had lavished 
favours upon him : but at the same time to keep him always un- 
der his own eye, he had made him steward of the household. 
When at last, Lord Stanley urged his former services to obtain 
permission to visit his estates, Richard consented with reluctance, 
but retained at court the Lord Strange as a hostage for the fidelity 
of his father. lingard. 



It is not only a curious but a delightful task to examine by 
what subtle and almost imperceptible touches Shakespear contrives 
to set such marks upon his characters,- as give them the most liv- 
ing likenesses that can be conceived. In this above all poets that 
ever existed, he is a study and model of perfection. The great 
distinguishing passions every poet may describe ; but Shakespear 
gives you their humours, their minutest foibles, those little starts- 
and caprices, which nothing but the most intimate familiarity 
brings to light. Other authors write characters like historians ; 
he like the bosom friend of the person he describes. 

I am persuaded I need not point out to the reader's sensibility 
the fine turn in the expression, good Catesby ! How can we be 
surprised if such a poet makes us in love even with his villains? 



SHAKESPEAR. 103 

Lord Stanley reports to Richard — 

Richmond is on the seas. 
K. RICH. There let him sink, and be the seas on' him ! 
White-Iiver'd runagate, what doth he there? 

This reply is pointed with irouy and invective : there are two 
causes in nature and character for this ; first, Richard was before 
informed of the news ; his person was not taken by surprise, and 
he was enough at ease to make a play upon Stanley's words — on 
the seas — and retort — be the seas on him! — Secondly, Stanley 
was a suspected subject, Richard was therefore interested to show 
a contempt of his competitor before a man of such doubtful alle- 
giance. In the spirit of this impression he urges Stanley to give 
an explicit answer to the question — What doth he there? Stan- 
ley endeavours to evade by answering that he knows not but by 
guess : the evasion only strengthens Richard's suspicions, and he 
again pushes him to disclose what he only guesses — Well as you 
guess — Stanley replies — 

He makes for England here to claim the crown. 

K. RICH. Is the chair empty? Is the sword unsway'd ? 
Ts the king dead ? The empire unpossess'd ? 
What heir of York is there alive but we ? 
And vho is England's king, but great York's heir ? 
Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas? 

What a cluster of characteristic excellencies are here ? All these 
interrogatives are ad hominem ; they fit no man but Stanley, they 
can be uttered by no man but Richard, and they can flow from the 
conceptions of no poet but the poet of nature. 

Stanley's whole scene ought to be investigated, for it is full of 
beauties, but I confess myself exhausted with the task, and lan- 
guage does not suffice to furnish fresh terms of admiration, which 
a closer scrutiny would call forth. n. Cumberland. 



104 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

K. Richard. How now ? what news ? 

Enter Ratcliff ; Catesby /oZZon;m(jr. 

Rat. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast 
Rideth a puissant navy ; to the shore 
Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, 
Unarm' d, aud unresolv'd to beat them back : 
'Tis thought, that Richmond is their admiral ; 
And there they hull, expecting but the aid 
Of Buckingham, to welcome them ashore. 

K. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the duke of Nor- 
folk:— 
Ratcliff, thyself, — or Catesby ; where is he ? 

Cate. Here, my good lord. 

K. Rich. Catesby, fly to the duke. 

Cate. I will, my lord, with all convenient haste. 

K. Rich. Ratcliff, come hither > Post to Salisbury ; 
When thou com'st thither, — Dull unmindful villain, 

[To Catesby.] 

Why stay'st thou here, and goest not to the duke ? 

Cate. First, mighty liege, tell me your highness' pleasure, 
What from your grace 1 shall deliver to him. 

K. Rich. O, true, good Catesby ; — Bid him levy straight 
The greatest strength aud power he can make, 
And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. 

Cate. I go. [Exit.] 

Rat. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury ? 

K. Rich. W T hy, what would'st thou do there, before I go ? 

Rat. Your highness told me, I should post before. 

Enter Stanley. 

K.Rich. My mind is chang'd.--Stanley, what news with you ? 

Stan. Mone good, my liege, to please you with the hearing ; 
Nor none so bad, but well may be reported. 

K. Rich. Heyday, a riddle ! neither good nor bad ! 
What need'st thou run so many miles about, 
When thou may'st tell thy tale the nearest way ? 
Once more what news ? 

Stan. Richmond is on the seas. 

K. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas on him ! 
White-liver'd runagate, what doth he there ? 

Stan. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. 

K. Rich. Well, as you guess ? 

Stan. Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, 
He makes for England here to claim the crown. 

K. Rich. Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway'd ? 
Is the king dead ? The empire unpossess'd ? 
What heir of York is there alive, but we ? 
And who is England's king, but great York's heir ? 



SHAKESPEAR. 105 

Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas ? 

Stan Unless for that, my liege, I canuot guess. 

K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your liege. 
You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. 
Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear. 

Stan. No, mighty liege ; therefore mistrust me not. 

K. Rich. Where is thy power then, to beat him back ? 
Where be thy tenants and thy followers } 
Are they not now upon the western shore, 
Safe conducting the rebels from their ships ? 

Stan. No, my good lord, my good friends are in the north, 

K. Rich. Cold friends to me : what do they in the north, 
When they should serve their sovereign in the west ? 

Stan. They have not been commanded, mighty king : 
Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave, 
I'll muster up my friends ; and meet your graee, 
Where and what time your majesty shall please. 

K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou would'st be gone to join with 
Richmond : 
I will not trust you, Sir, 

Stan. Most mighty sovereign, 
You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful ; 
1 never was nor never will be false. 

K. Rich. Well, go muster men. But, hear you, leave 
behind 
Your son, George Stanley j look your heart be firm, 
Or else his head's assurance is but frail. 

Stan. So deal with him, as I prove true to you. 

[Exit Stanley.} 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire* 
As I by friends am well advertised, 
Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty plelate, 
Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother, 
With many more confederates are in arms. 

Enter another Messenger. 

2 Mess. In Kent, my liege, the Guildfords are in arms ; 
And every hour more competitors* 

Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong. 

Enter another Messenger. 

3 Mess. My lord, the army of great Buckingham— 

K. Rich. Out on ye, owls ! nothing but songs of death ? 

[He strikes him.] 
% Associates. 



106 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

There, take thou that, till thou bring better news. 

3 Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty, 
Is, — that by sudden floods and fall of waters, 
Buckingham's army is dispers'd and scatter'd ; 
And he himself wander'd away alone, 
No man knows whither. 

K. Rich. Oh ! I cry you mercy : 
There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. 
Hath any well advised friend proclaim'd 
Reward to him that brings the traitor in ? 

3 Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, my liege. 



ON shakespear's poems. 

Shakespear's poems are almost all lost in the glory of his 
Dramas. Even they who know them, and are capable of under- 
standing and feeling their numerous beauties, do not, unless we 
greatly err, recur so often as they ought to do to their pei usal j 
while the ordinary readers of poetry are satisfied with believing, 
that they are every thing that good judges have said of them — but 
go no farther. It is with Shakespear as with a great conqueror 
whose many inferior achievements are forgotten in the fame of 
his splendid and decisive victories. — Wyat, Surrey, Watson, Sid- 
ney, Daniel, Spenser, and Drayton, had all written beautiful son- 
nets before Shakespear — and if his be compared with the finest of 
those writers, it will be at once seen, that while there is nothing in 
which he does not equal them, he far excels them all in originality 
of illustration, ingenuity of sentiment, delicacy of pathos, strength 
of passion, and profound reflection on human life. A question of 
much difficulty, and certainly of no little interest, has long existed 
among critics, as to the person to whom these sonnets were ad- 
dressed. Farmer, Steevens, and Malone, though differing in opin- 
ion concerning some other points connected with the dispute, 
agree in believing, that the greatest number of them were addressed 
to a man, and perhaps twenty-eight to a lady. Dr. Drake is of 
opinion that the person to whom they are addressed, was Lord 
Southampton — and we think that he has succeeded in proving his 
point. Blackwood's Magazine, Aug. 1818. 



SHAKESPEAR, 107 



SONNETS. 



When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
1 all alone beweep my out-cast state, 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate, 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featur'd like him, like him vrith friends possess'd, 

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least: 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
Haply I think on thee, — and then my state 

(Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 

For thy sweet love remember' d, such wealth brings. 

That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 



Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, 
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force ; 

Some in their garments tho' new-fangled ill, 
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse ; 

And every humour hath its adjunct pleasure, 
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest ; 

But these particulars are not my measure, 
All these 1 better in one general best. 

Thy love is better than high birth to me, 
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, 

Of more delight than hawks or horses be ; 
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast. 

Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take 

All this away, and me most wretched make. 



Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 
Or bends with the remover to remove : 

no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken; 

It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, tho' rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom. 

If this be error, and upon me prov'd, 

1 never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. 



108 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



ROBT. HERRICK, FLOURISHED ABOUT 1630. 



ON HERRICK'S POETRY. 

Among the numerous poets who possess considerable merit, but 
who flourished in fame only for a short season, and are now 
scarcely known, must be mentioned Robert Herrick. Few enter- 
tained more harmless vanity than he. His works are replete with 
predictions respecting the future good fortune of his poetical 
children. He reposed on posterity with confidence; but poets, 
like heroes, are very little able to judge of the rank to which they 
may be assigned by their successors. Ordinary readers of poetry 
do not know the name of Herrick ; and most of the critical and 
curious lovers of versification pass over his name without examin- 
ing his productions. No man has ever written more unequally 
than Herrick; and all which he wrote he injudiciously made 
public* His beauties have, consequently, been lost amidst the 
heap of rubbish in which they lie. These beauties are like dia- 
monds when foTind at the base of Golconda, they are often en- 
cased in a coarse and sordid soil; but still are they of an exquisite 

water. 

Universal Magazine, April, 1811. 



SONG. 



Herrick's vein of poetry is very irregular, but where the ore is 
pure, it is of high value. His song beginning, " Gather the rose | 
buds while ye may," is sweetly Anacreontic. t. campbell. 



* The consequence lias been, that productions, wh^ch Marlowe or Milton 
might have owned with pleasure, have been concealed, and nearly buried, 
in a crude and undigested mass. Dr. Drake.— lEd.~\ 



HERRICK. 109 



father the rose buds while ye may 

Old Time is still a flying ; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he's a getting, 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 

The age is best which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer ; 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And, whilst ye may, go marry ; 

For having lost but once your prime. 
You may for ever tarry. 



THE CAPTIVE BEE. 

Herkick was an amorist, with perhaps more fancy than feeling, 
though he has been called by some the English Anacreon. — He 
has point and ingenuity, but I think little of the spirit of love or 
wine. — His poems, from their number and size are " like the 
motes that play in the sun's beams;" that glitter to the eye of 
fancy, but leave no distinct impression on the memory. His Cap- 
tive Bee is a successful and spirited imitation of Anacreon. 

HAZLITT. 

As Julia once a slumbering lay, 

It chanc'd a Bee did fly that way, 

After a dew or dew-like shower, 

To tipple freely in a flower. 

Tor some rich flower he took the lip 

Of Julia, and began to sip : 

But when he felt he suck'd from thence 

Honey, and in the quintessence ; 

He drank so much he scarce could stir . 

So Julia took the pilferer. 



110 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

And thus surpris'd, as filchers use, 
He thus began himself t' excuse : 
Sweet lady-flower ! I never brought 
Hither the least one thieving thought : 
But taking those rare lips of yours 
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers 
I thought I might there take a taste, 
Where so much syrup ran to waste: 
Besides, know this, I never sting 
The flower that gives me nourishing- 
But with a kiss or thanks, do pay 
For honey that I bear away. 
This said, he laid his little scrip 
Of honey 'fore her ladyship : 
And told her as some tears did fall, 
That that he took, and that was all. 
At which she smil'd, and bid him go, 
And take bis bag, but thus much know 
When next he came a pilfering so, 
He should from her full lips derive 
Honey enough to fill his hive. 



THOMAS CAREW, DIED 1639, AGED 50. 



CAREW'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

The want of boldness and expansion in Carew's thoughts and sub. 
jects, excludes him from rivalship with great poetical names ; 
nor is it difficult, even within the narrow pale of his works, to dis- 
cover some faults of affectation, and of still more objectionable in- 
delicacy. But among the poets who have walked in the same 
limited path, he is pre-eminently beautiful, and deservedly ranks 
among the earliest of those who gave a cultivated grace to our 
lyrical strains. His slowness in composition was evidently that 
sort of care in the poet, which saves trouble to his reader. His 
poems have touches of elegance and refinement, which their 
trifling subjects could not have yielded without a delicate and de- 



CAREW. Ul 

liberate exercise of the fancy ; aud he unites the point and polish 
of later times, with many of the genial and warm tints of the 
elder muse. t. campbell. 



PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 

Think not, 'cause men flattering say 
You're fresh as April, sweet as May, 
Bright as is the morning-star, 
That you are so ; — or though you are, 
Be not therefore proud, and deem 
All men unworthy your esteem. 
Nor let brittle beauty make 
You your wiser thoughts forsake : 
For that lo\ely face will fail ; — 
Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail; 
'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, 
Than summer's rain, or winter's sun : 
Most fleeting when it is most dear; 
'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. 
These curious locks so aptly twin'd, 
Whose every hair a soul doth bind, 
Will change their auburn hue, and grow 
White and cold as winter's snow. 
That eye which now is Cupid's nest 
Will prove his grave, and all the rest 
Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, 
Nor lily shall be found, nor rose ; 
And what will then become of all 
Those, whom now you servants call ? 
Like swallows when your summer's done 
They'll fly and seek some warmer sun. 
The snake each year fresh skin resumes. 
And eagles change their aged plumes ; 
The faded rose each spring receives 
A fresh red tincture on her leaves : 
But if your beauties once decay, 
You never know a second May. 
Oh, then, be wise, and whilst your season 
Affords you days for sport, do reason ; 
Spend not in vain your life's short hour, 
But crop in time your beauty's flower. 

m2 



112 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



SONG. 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For in your beauties orient deep 
These flowers, as in their causes sleep. 

Ask me no more, whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day : 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past ; 
For in your sweet dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more, if east or west, 
The phcenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 



FRANCIS QUARLES, DIED 1644, AGED 52. 



QUARLES'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

There is not in English Literature a name more wronged than 
that of Quarles, — wronged, too, by those who best ought to have 
discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits in con- 
tradistinction to his defects. " Quarles and Wither," for more 
than a century, were the " Bcevius and Mcevms," of every poet 
and poetaster who imagined himself a Horace. It must be con- 
fessed, that our author, as well as Wither, has injured his own fair 



QUA RUES. 113 

fame more than the slanders of his brethren, and the neglect of pos- 
terity could do, — by the quantity of crude, indigestible matter with 
which he has encumbered his finer conceptions, as well as the base 
phraseology with which he has denied the pure and felicitous dic- 
tion that frequently clothes his loveliest thoughts in the seemliest 
words, apparently without any effort of his own. In fact his faults 
are so laboured, that they seem to have been committed on pur- 
pose, while his beauties are so spontaneous, that they alone, amidst 
his anomalous compositions seem to be natural to him. 

J. MONTGOMERY. 



CONQUER THYSELF. 

Conquer thyself, thy rebel thoughts repel, 

And chase those false affections that rebel. 

Hath heaven despoil'd what his full hand hath given thee ? 

Nipt thy succeeding blossoms ? or bereaven thee 

Of thy dear latest hope, thy bosom friend ? 

Doth sad despair deny these griefs an end ? 

Despair's a whispering rebel, that within thee 

Bribes all thy field, and sets thyself again thee : 

Make keen thy faith, and with thy force let flee, 

If thou not conquer him, he'll conquer thee : 

Advance thy shield of patience to thy head, 

And when grief strikes, 'twill strike the striker dead. 

Iu adverse fortunes be thou strong and stout, 
And bravely win thyself, heaven holds not out 
His bow, for ever bent. The disposition 
Of noblest spirits doth, by opposition, 
Exasperate the more : a gloomy night 
Whets on the morning to return more bright ; 
A blade, well tried, deserves a treble price, 
And virtue's purest, most opposed by vice; 
Brave minds oppress'd, should in despite of fate, 
Look greatest, like the sun, in lowest state : 
But ah ! shall God thus strive with flesh and blood ; 
Receives He glory from, or reaps He good 
In mortal's ruin, that He leaves man so 
To be o'erwhelm'd by his unequal foe ? 
May not a potter, that from out the ground 
Hath framed a vessel, search if it be sound ? 

m3 



14 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Or, if by furbishing he take more pain 

To make it fairer, shall the pot complain ? 

Mortal, thou art but clay : then shall not He 

That framed thee for hia. service, season thee ? 

Man, close thy lips, be thou no undertaker 

Of God's designs, dispute not with thy Maker. 

Lord, 'tis against thy nature to do ill, 

Then give me power to bear, and work thy will j 

Thou know'st what's best, make thou thine own conclusion- 

Be glorified, altho' in my confusion. 



VAIN BOASTING. 

Can he be fair, that withers at a blast ? 

Or he be strong, that airy breath can cast ? 

Can he be wise, that knows not how to live? 

Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give ? 

Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan ? 

—So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young is man. 

So fair is man, that death a parting blast, 

Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last 5 

So stroug is man, that with a gasping breath 

He totters, and bequeaths his strength to death ; 

So wise is man, that if with death he strive 

His wisdom cannot teach him how to live ; 

So rich is man, that all his debts being paid, 

His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid ; 

So young is man, that, broke with care and sorrow, 

He's old enough to-day, to die to-morrow : 

Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five-feet long ? 

Thou'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young. 



DRUMMOND. 115 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND, DIED 1649, AGED 64. 



ON THE SONNET. 

The Sonnet is composed of two quatrains and two tercets, and has 
generally four, and never more than five rhymes.* Its admirers 
discover the most harmonious grace iu the regularity of the mea- 
sure ; in the two quatrains, which, with their corresponding 
rhymes, open the subject and prepare the mind of the reader ; and 
in the two tercets, which, moving more rapidly, fulfil the expecta- 
tion which has been excited, complete the image, and satisfv the 
poetical feeling. The sounet is essentially musical, aud essentially 
founded ou the harmony of sound, from which its name is derived. f 
The richness and fullness of the rhymes constitute a portion of its 
grace. The return of the same sounds makes a more powerful im- 
pression, in proportion to their repetition and completeness; and 
we are astonished when we thus find ourselves affected, almost 
without the power of being able to ascertain the cause of our 
emotion. sismondi. 



* The riiymes of the first four lines are repealed in the next four, while 
the last six, which wind up the thought, are in like manner interwoven ; so 
that the whole forms a system as closely connected as the Spenserian stanza 
of nine lines or the ottava rima stanza of eight. — Eclectic Review— \_Ed.~\ 

t The name bears evident affinity to the Italian sonaire " to resound" — 
" sing around," which originated in the Latin sonans, " sounding, jingling, 
ringing;" or indeed it may come from the French sonner, "to sound, or 
ring," in which language it is observable, we first meet with the word son. 
neite, where it signifies " a little bell," and sonnelier, " a maker of little bells." 
— H. K. Witte.-lEd.l 



116 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

SONNET TO THE RIVER FORTH : 

ON WHICH HIS MISTRESS HAD EMBARKED. 

Drummond's Sonnets are in the highest degree elegant, harmo- 
nious, and striking. It appears to me that they are more in the 
manner of Petrarch than any others that we have, with a certain 
intenseness in the sentiment, an occasional glitter of thought, and 
a uniform terseness of expression. — This sonnet to the English 
reader will express the very soul, of Petrarch, the molten breath of 
sentiment conveited into the glassy essence of a set of glittering 
but still graceful conceits. hazlitt. 

Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a chrystal plain, 

Cut your white locks, and on your fuamy face 

Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace 

The boat that earth's perfections doth contain. 

Winds wonder and thro' wondering hold your peace, 

Or if that you your hearts cannot restrain 

From sending sighs, feeling a lover's case, 

Sigh, and in her fair hair yourselves enchain, 

Or take these sighs, which absence makes arise 

From my oppressed breast, and fill the sails, 

Or some sweet breath new brought from Paradise. 

The floods do smile, love o'er the winds prevails, 

And yet huge waves arise; — the cause is this, 

The Ocean strives with Forth the boat to kiss. 



SONNET. 



Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, 

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own, 

'I ho' solitary, who is not alone, 

But doth converse with that eternal love : 

O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, 

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, 

Which make good doubtful, do the evil approve ! 

O how niore sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath 

And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, 

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! 

How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold ! 

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights ; 

Woods, harmless shades, have only true delights. 



DRUMMOND. 117 



SONNET. 

The frail and transitory existence of youth and female charms was 
never more impressively whispered in the ear of unrelenting 
beauty, than through the medium of the following sonnet. 

DR. DRAKE. 

Trust not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold, 

With gentle tides that on your temples flow ; 

Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow ; 

Nor snow of cheeks, with Tyrian grain enroll'd : 

Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe, 

When first I did their azure rays behold ; 

Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show 

Than of the Thracian harper have been told. 

Look to this dying lily, fading rosp, 

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams 

Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice, 

And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes. 

The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers 

Shall once, ah me ! not spare that spring of yours. 



SONNET. 



Ah ! burning thoughts, now let me take some rest, 
And your tumultuous broils awhile appease : 
Is't not enough, stars, fortune, love molest 
Me all at once, but ye must too displease ? 
Let hope, tho' false, yet lodge within my breast ; 
My high attempt, tho' dangerous, yet praise : 
What tho' I trace not right heaven's steepy ways, 
It doth suffice my fall shall make me blest. 
I do not doat on days, I fear not death, 
So that my life be good, I wish't not long; 
Let me renown'd live from the worldly throng, 
And when Heaven lists, recal this borrow'd breath. 
Men but like visions are, time all doth claim^ 
He lives who dies to win a lasting name. 



1J8 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



GEORGE WITHER, DIED 1667, AGED 79. 



THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 

This beautiful old song was written by a poet whose name would 
have been utterly forgotten, if it had not been preserved by Swift 
as a term of contempt. " Dryden and Wither " are coupled by 
him like the Ba^vius and Maevius of Virgil. Dr)'den, however, has 
had justice done him by posterity ; and as for Wither, though of 
subordinate merit, that he was not altogether devoid of genius 
will be judged from the following stanzas. The truth is, Wither 
was a very voluminous poetry-writer ; and as bis political and sa- 
tirical strokes rt-ndered him extremely popular in his life-time ; 
so afterwards, when these were no longer relished, they totally 
consigned his writings to oblivion. Percy's reliqtjes. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

Die because a woman's fair? 

Or make pale my cheeks with care, 

'Cause another's rosy are ? 

Be she fairer than the day, 

Or the flowery meads in May, 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how fair she be ! 

Should my heart be griev'd or pined 
'Cause I see another kind ? 
Or a well disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me, 

What care 1 how good she be ! 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or, her well deservings known, 



COWLEY. 119 

Make me quite forget my own ? 
Be she with that goodness hlest 
Which may gain her name of Best, 

If she be not such to me, 

What care I how good she be ! 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
Shall I play the fool and die? 
Those that bear a noble mind, 
Where they want of riches find, 
Think what with them they would do 
That without them dare to woo ; 

And, unless that mind I see, 

What care I tho' great she be ! 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair : 
If she love me this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve : 
If she slight me when I woo, 
I can scorn and let her go : 

For, if she be not for me, 

What care I for whom she be ! 



ABRAHAM COWLEY, DIED 1667, AGED 49. 



COWLEY'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

Cowley, the most miscellaneous of all our poets, attempted 
every species of composition, except that of Tragedy, and, it may 
be added, distinguished himself in each above all his contempora- 
ries except Milton, who, however, in his range of writing, was far 
less various than he. Cowley was such a prodigal of his genius, 
that he seems to have spent nearly his whole patrimony of fame 
during his life time, by expending all the riches of a most accom- 
plished mind on the fashions of his age in literature, which, like 
other fashions, necessarily passed away with the generation that 
bred them. The very artifices of style, which once were the glory 



120 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

of his verse, are now the eclipsing shadows that obscure it, aud 
the fine gold of his poetry is but dimly discernible amidst the 
rusted ornaments, of baser metal, that formerly outshone it ; so 
that it has been the fate of one of the most brilliant intellects that 
ever arose in this country, never to be estimated by its real ex- 
cellence. ^J. MONTGOMERY. 



ODE ON LIBERTY. 

Cowley is one of the earliest names of eminence in the history of 
English Lyrical Poetry, aud it is principally in reading his Odes 
that we lament those metaphysical conceits, which obscure the 
reputation of a genius of first-rate ability. But " the light that 
led astray was light from heaven." His very faults are the off- 
spring of Genius; they are the exuberances of a mind " o'er-in- 
formed with meaning ;" the excrescences of a tree, whose waste 
foliage, if properly pruned and arranged, would form an immortal 
wreath on the brows of any humbler genius. h. neele. 

Freedom with Virtue takes her seat ; 

Her proper place, her only scene, 

Is in the golden mean, 
She lives not with the poor nor with the great. 
The wings of those Necessity has dipt, 

And they're in Fortune's bridewell whipt 

To the laborious task of bread ; 
These are by various tyrants captive led. 
Now wild Ambition with imperious force 
Rides, reins, and spurs, them, like th' unruly horse ; 

And servile Avarice yokes them now, 

Like toilsome oxen, to the plough ; 
And sometimes Lust, like the misguided light, 
Draws them through all the labyrinths of night. 
If any few among the great there be 

From these insulting passions free, 

Yet we ev'n those, too, fetter'd see 
By custom, business, crowds, and formal decency. 
And, wheresoe'er they stay, and wheresoe'er they go, 

Impertinencies round them flow : 



COWLEY. 121 

These are the small uneasy things 

Which about greatness still are found, 

And rather it molest than wound : 
Like gnats, which too much heat of summer brings ; 
But cares do swarm there, too, and those have stings : 
As, when the honey does too open lie, 

A thousand wasps about it fly : 
Nor will the master even to share admit ; 
The master stands aloof, and dares not taste of it. 

'Tis morning : well ; I fain would yet sleep on : 

You cannot now; you must be gone 

To court, or to the noisy hall : 
Besides, the rooms without are crowded all; 

The stream of business does begin, 
And a spring-tide of clients is come in. 
Ah cruel guards, which this poor prisoner keep 5 

Will they not suffer him to sleep ? 
Make an escape ; out at the postern flee, 
And get some blessed hours of liberty : 
With a few friends, and a few dishes, dine, 

And much of mirth and moderate wine. 
To thy bent mind some relaxation give, 
And steal one day out of thy life to live. 
Oh happy man (he cries) to whom kind Heaven 

Has such a freedom always given ! 
Why, mighty madman, what should hinder thee 

From being every day so free ? 

In all the freeborn nations of the air, 

Never did a bird a spirit so mean and sordid bear, 

As to exchange his native liberty 

Of soaring boldly up into the sky, 

His liberty to sing, to perch, or fly, 

When and whatever he thought good, 
And all his innocent pleasures of the wood, 
For a more plentiful or constant food. 

Nor ever did ambitious rage 

Make him into a painted cage. 
Or the false forest of a well-hung room, 

For honour and preferment, come. 
Now, blessings on you all, ye heroic race, 
Who keep your primitive powers and rights so well, 

Though men and angels fell ! 
Of all material lives the highest place 

To you is justly given ; 
And ways and walks the nearest heaven. 
Whilst wretched we, yet vain and proud, think fit 
To boast, that we look up to it. 



122 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Ev'n to the universal tyrant, Love, 

You homage pay but once a -year : 
None so degenerous and unbirdly prove, 

As his perpetual yoke to bear; 
None, but a few unhappy household fowl, 

Whom human lordship does control ; 

Who from their birth corrupted were 
By bondage, and by man's example here. 

He's no small prince, who, every day 

Thus to himself can say : 
Now will I sleep, now eat, now sit, now walk, 
Now meditate alone, now with acquaintance talk ; 
This I will do, here 1 will stay, 
Or, if my fancy call me away, 
My man and I will presently go ride 
(For we, before, have nothing to provide, 
Nor, after, are to render an account) 
To Dover, Berwick, or the Cornish mount. 

If thou but a short journey take, 

As if thy last thou wert to make, 
Business must be dispatch'd, ere thou canst part, 

Nor canst thou stir, unless there be 

A hundred horse and men to wait on thee, 

And many a mule, and many a cart ; 

What an unwieldly man thou art ; 

The Rhodian Colussus so 

A journey, too, might go. 

Where honour, or where conscience does not bind, 

No other law shall shackle me ; 

Slave to myself I will not be, 
Nor shall my future actions be confin'd 

By my own present mind. 
Who by resolves and vows engag'd does stand 
For days that yet belong to fate, 
Does, like an uuthrift, mortgage his estate 

Before it falls into his hand : 

The bondman of the cloister so, 
All that he does receive, does always owe ; 
And still as time comes in, it goes away 

Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. 
Unhappy slave, and pupil to a bell, 
Which his hours-work, as well as hours, does tell ! 
Unhappy, till the last, the kind releasing knell. 



COWLEY. 123 



THE CHRONICLE. 



Cowley's ballad called "The Chronicle" is certainly the spright- 
liest, pleasantest thing of the class in our language. The idea of 
comparing a succession of mistresses to a line of sovereigns is sup- 
ported with wonderful fancy and vivacity ; and the concluding 
enumeration of the arts and instruments of female sway is very 
elegantly sportive. The talent of trifling with grace is commonly 
thought no part of English genius; hut our liveliest neighbours 
may be challenged to produce a happier trifle than this Chronicle. 

DR. AIKIN. 



The Chronicle is a composition unrivalled and alone : such gaiety 
of fancy, such facility of expression, such varied similitude, such a 
succession of images, and such a dance of words, it is in vain to 
expect except from Cowley. His strength always appears in his 
agility ; his volatility is not the flutter of a light, but the bound of 
au elastic mind. His levity never leaves his learning behind it; 
the moralist, the politician, and the critic, mingle their influence 
even in tbis airy frolic of genius. To such a performance, Suck- 
ling could have brought the gaiety, but not the knowledge : Dryden 
could have supplied the knowledge, but not the gaiety. 

DR. JOHNSON. 

Margarita first possess'd, 

If I remember well, my breast, 

Margarita, first of all ; 
But when awhile the wanton maid 
AVith my restle s s heart had play'd, 

Martha took the flying ball. 

Martha soon did it resign 
To the beauteous Catherine. 

Beauteous Catherine gave place 
(Tho' loth and angry she to part 
With the possession of my heart) 

To Eliza's conquering face. 

m2 



124 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Eliza to this hour might reign, 
Had she not evil counsels ta'en : 

Fundamental laws she hroke, 
And still new favourites she chose, 
Till up in arms my passions rose, 

And cast away her yoke. 

Mary then, and gentle Ann, 
Both to reign at once began, 

Alternately they sway'dj 
And sometimes Mary was the fair, 
And sometimes Ann the crown did wear, 

And sometimes both I obey'd. 

Another Mary then arose, 
And did rigorous laws impose ; 

A mighty tyrant she ! 
Long, alas, should I have been, 
Under that iron-scepter'd queen, 

Had not Rebecca set me free. 

When fair Rebecca set me free, 
'Twas then a golden time for me, 

But soon those pleasures fled : 
For the gracious princess died, 
In her youth and beauty's pride, 

And Judith reigned in her stead. 

One month, three days, and half an hour, 
Judith held the sov'reign pow'r, 

Wondrous beautiful her face ; 
But so weak and small her wit, 
That she to govern was unfit, 

And so Susannah took her place. 

But when Isabella came, 
Arm'd with a resistless flame, 

And th' artillery of her eye ; 
While she proudly march'd about 
Greater conquests to find out, 

She beat out Susan by the bye. 

But in her place I then obey'd 
Black-ey'd Bess, her vicery maid, 

To whom ensued a vacancy ; 
Thousand worse passions then possess'd 
The interregnum of my breast ; 

Bless me from such an anarchy ! 



COWLEY. 125 



Gentle Henrietta then, 

And a third Mary next began ; 

Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria, 
And then a pretty Thomasine, 
And then another Catharine, 

And then a long et caetera. 

But should I now to you relate 

The strength and riches of their state, 

The powder, patches, and the pins, 
The ribands, jewels, and the rings, 
The lace, the paint, and warlike things, 

That make up all their magazines : 

If I should tell the politic arts 
To take and keep men's hearts; 

The letters, embassies, and spies, 
The frowns, the smiles, and flatteries, 
The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 

Numbeiless, nameless, mysteries ! 

And all the little lime-twigs laid 
By Machiavel, the waiting maid ; 

I more voluminous should grow 
(Chiefly if I, like them, should tell 
All change of weather that befel) 

Than Holinshed or Stow. 

But I will briefer with them be, 
Since few of them were long with me j 

A higher and a nobler strain 
My present empress does claim, 
Eleonora,* first o' the name, 

Whom God grant long to reign. 



" Cowley, in the latter part of his life, showed a sort of aversion for wo- 
men, and would leave the room when they came in : 'twas prohably from a 
disappointment in love. He was much in love with his Leonora, who is 
mentioned at the end of that good ballad of his, on his different mistresses. 
She was married to Dean Sprat's brother, and Cowley never was in love with 
any body after.— Pope.— [Ed.~\ 



i 



m3 



126 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



JOHN MILTON, DIED 1674, AGED 66. 



ON EPIC POETRY. 

By the general consent of critics, the first praise of genius is due 
to the writer of an epic poem, as it requires an assemblage of all the 
powers which are singly sufficient for other compositions. Poetry 
is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination 
to the help of reason. Epic poetry undertakes to teach the most 
important truths by the most pleasing precepts, and therefore 
relates some great event in the most affecting manner. History 
must supply the writer with the rudiments of narration, which he 
must improve and exalt by a nobler art, must animate by drama- 
tic energy, and diversify by retrospection and anticipation ; 
morality must teach him the exact bounds, and different shades of 
vice and virtue ; from policy, and the practice of life, he has to 
learn the discriminations of character, and the tendency of the 
passions, either single or combined ; and physiology must supply 
him with illustrations and images. To put these materials to 
poetical use, is required an imagination capable of painting 
nature, and realizing fiction. Nor is he yet a poet till he has 
attained the whole extension of his language, distinguished all the 
delicacies of phrase, and all the colours of words, and learned to 
adjust their different sounds to all the varieties of metrical 
modulation. 

Bossuet is of opinion, that the poet's first work is to find a moral,| 
which his fable is afterwards to illustrate and establish. This 
seems to have been the process only of Milton ; the moral ol 
other poems is incidental and consequent ; in Milton's only it it 
essential and intrinsic. His purpose was the most useful and th< 
most arduous ; to vindicate the ways of God to man ; to show tht 



MILTON. 127 

reasonableness of religion, and the necessity of obedience to the 
Divine Law. 

The subject of an epic poem is naturally an event of great im- 
portance. That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the 
conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire. His subject 
is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of Heaven and of Earth ; 
rebellion, against the supreme King, raised by the highest order 
of created beings ; the overthrow of their host, and the punish- 
ment of their crime; the creation of a new race of reasonable 
creatures; their original happiness and innocence, their for- 
feiture of immortality, and their restoration to hope and peace. 

Great events can be hastened or retarded only by persons of 
elevated dignity. Before the greatness displayed in Milton's 
poem, all other greatness shrinks away. The weakest of his 
agents are the highest and noblest of human beings, the original 
parents of mankind ; with whose actions the elements consented ; 
on whose rectitude, or deviation of will, depended the state of 
terrestrial nature, and the condition of all the future inhabitants 
of the globe. 

Of the other agents in the poem, the chief are such as it is 
irreverence to name on slight occasions. The rest were lower 
powers — 

" Of which the least could wield 
Those elements, and arm him with the force 
Of all their regions;" 

powers, which only the controul of Omnipotence restrains from 
laying creation waste, and filling the vast expanse of space with 
ruin and confusion. To display the motives and actions of beings 
thus superior, so far as human reason can imagine them, or 
human imagination represent them, is the task which this mighty 
poet has undertaken and performed. 

The characteristic quality of " Paradise Lost" is sublimity. 
Milton sometimes descends to the elegant, but his element is the 
great. He can occasionally invest himself with grace ; but his 
natural port is gigantic loftiness. He can please when pleasure is 



128 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

required ; but it is his peculiar power to astonish; He seems to have 
been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was 
that Nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon 
others ; the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splen- 
did, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating 
the dreadful; he therefore chose a subject on which too much 
could not be said, on which he might tire his fancy without the 
censure of extravagance. The appearances of nature, and the 
occurrences of life, did not satiate his appetite of greatness. To 
paint things as they are, requires a minute attention, and employs 
the memory rather than the fancy. Milton's delight was to 
sport in the wide regions of possibility; reality was a scene too 
narrow for his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, 
into worlds where only imagination can travel, and delighted to 
form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to 
superior beings, to trace the counsels of Hell, or accompany the 
choirs of Heaven. 

Of his moral sentiments it is hardly praise to affirm that they 
excel those of all other poets; for this superiority he was indebted 
to his acquaintance with the sacred writings. The ancient epic 
poets, wanting the light of Revelation, were very unskilful teach- 
ers of virtue; their principal characters may be great, but they 
are not amiable. The reader may rise from their works with 
a greater degree of active or passive fortitude, and sometimes 
of prudence; but he will be able to carry away few precepts of 
justice, and none of mercy. In Milton every line breathes sanc- 
tity of thought, and purity of manners, except when the train of 
the narration requires the introduction of the rebellious spirits ; 
and even they are compelled to acknowledge their subjection to 
God, in such a manner as excites reverence and confirms piety. 

DR. JOHNSON. 



MILTON. 129 

MILTON'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

In delineating Milton's character as a poet, we are saved the ne- 
cessity of looking far for its distinguishing attributes. His name 
is almost identified with sublimity. He is in truth the sublimest 
of men. He rises not by effort or discipline, but by a native ten- 
dency and a godlike instinct, to the contemplation of objects of 
grandeur and awfulness. He always moves with a conscious 
energy. There is no subject so vast or terrific, as to repel or in- 
timidate him. The overpowering grandeur of a theme kindles 
and attracts him. He enters on the description of the infernal 
regions with a fearless tread, as if he felt within himself a power to 
erect the prison-house of fallen spirits, to encircle them with flames 
and horrors worthy of their crimes, to call forth from them shouts 
which should " tear hell's concave," and to embody in their chief 
an Archangel's energies and a Demon's pride and hate. Even the 
stupendous conception of Satan seems never to oppress his facul- 
ties. Hell and hell's king have a terrible harmony, and dilate 
into new grandeur and awfulness, the longer we contemplate them. 
From one element, " solid and liquid fire," the poet has framed a 
world of horror and suffering, such as imagination had never tra- 
versed. But fiercer flames, than those which encompass Satan, 
burn in his own soul. Revenge, exasperated pride, consuming 
wrath, ambition though fallen, yet unconquered by the thunders 
of the Omnipotent, and grasping still at the empire of the uni- 
verse, — these form a picture more sublime and terrible than Hell. 
Hell yields to the spirit which it imprisons. The intensity of its 
fires reveals the inteuser passions and more vehement will of Satan ; 
and the ruined Archangel gathers into himself the sublimity of the 
scene which surrounds him. We see mind triumphant over the 
most terrible powers of nature. We see unutterable agony subdued 
by energy of soul. We have not indeed in Satan those bursts of 
passion, which rive the soul as well as shatter the outward frame 
of Lear. But we have a depth of passion which only an Arch- 
angel could manifest. The all- enduring, all-defying pride of 
Satan, assuming so majestically Hell's burning throne, and coveting 



130 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

the diadem which scorches his thunder-blasted brow, is a creation 
requiring in its author almost the spiritual energy with which he 
invests the fallen seraph. dr. channing. 



ON THE COMPOSITION OF PARADISE LOST. 

To compose a great poem of which the basis is religion, such as 
Paradise Lost, requires more transcendant power of poetry, than 
to compose one, of which the basis was the conflicts of men with 
men, in the turmoil of their earthly passions, and with weapons of 
metal, iron, or steel, like the Iliad. For the same elementary pas- 
sions, thoughts, and feelings, were handled in both — but in the 
former, purified and elevated to the utmost pitch to which they 
could be brought by the united fires of Piety and Genius. The 
whole frame of Milton's intellectual and moral being was sublimer 
far than that of Homer — as the Christian religion is sublimer far 
than the idolatrous and mythological creed of the old Greeks : 
Milton has accomplished his mightier task as completely as Homer 
has accomplished his, for the instruments with which he wrought 
on divine materials were themselves divine. Whatever might have 
been his genius, no poet could have composed Paradise Lost who 
had not the religious soul of Milton — as religious as a human soul 
can he, in all its entrances into the realms of imagination. Neither 
in like manner, could any poet have composed the Iliad, whatevi 
had been his genius, who had not, like Homer, a soul that lived in 
magnificent dreams of war, and held constant communication, as 
it were, with the shades of warriors. Both bards were equal to 
" their high argument." Born each in the age of the other, Homer 
might have been Milton, Milton Homer. He who sung so glori- 
ously of Jupiter, might have dared to sing of Jehovah — he who 
sung of the hallelujahs of glorified saints, might have sung of tht 
war- cry of heroes. 

Blackwood's Magazine, Nov. 1827. 



MILTON. 131 



THE FALL OF SATAN. 

Him the Almighty Power 
Hurl'd headlong flaming from the etherial sky, 
With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell 
In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
Nine times the space that measures day and night 
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf, 
Confounded, though immortal: But his doom 
Reserved him to more wrath ; for now the thought 
Both of lost happiness, and lasting pain, 
Torments him : round he throws his baleful eyes, 
That witness' d huge affliction and dismay 
Mix'd with obdurate pride and steadfast hate : 
At once, as far as Angels ken, he views 
The dismal situation waste and wild: 
A dungeon horrible on all sides round 
As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames 
No light ; but rather darkness visible 
Served only to discover sights of woe, 
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes 
That comes to all; but torture without end 
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
With ever burning sulphur unconsumed : 
Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 
For those rebellious; here their prison ordain'd 
In utter darkness, and their portiou set 
As far removed from God and light of Heaven 
As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole. 



CONFERENCE OF SATAN AND BEELZEBUB. 

Satan's love of power and contempt for suffering are never once 
relaxed from the highest pitch of intensity. His thoughts burn 
like a hell within him ; but the power of thought holds dominion 
in his mind over every other consideration. The consciousness of 
a determined purpose, of "that intellectual being, those thoughts 
that wander through eternity," though accompanied with endless 
pain, he prefers to nonentity, to " being swallowed up and lost in 



132 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

the wide womb of uncreated night." He expresses the sum and 
substance of all ambition in one line. " Fallen cherub, to be weak 
is miserable, doing or suffering!" After such a conflict as his, 
and such a defeat, to retreat in order, to rally, to make terms, to 
exist at all, is something ; but he does more than this — he founds 
a new empire in hell, and from it conquers this new world, whi- 
ther he bends his undaunted flight, forcing his way through " up- 
per, nether, and surrounding fires." The poet has not in all this 
given us a mere shadowy outline ; the strength is equal to the 
magnitude of the conception. The Achilles of Homer is not more 
distinct j the Titans were not more vast; Prometheus chained to 
his rock was not a more terrific example of suffering and of crime. 
Wherever the figure of Satan is introduced, whether he walks or 
flies, " rising aloft incumbent on the dusky air," it is illustrated 
with the most striking and appropriate images : so that we see it 
always before us, gigantic, irregular, portentous, uneasy, and dis- 
turbed — but dazzling in its faded splendour, the clouded ruins of 
a god. HAZLITT. 

If thou beest he ; but O, how fallen ! how changed 
From him, who, in the happy realms of light, 
Clothed with transcendant brightness, didst outshine 
Myriads though bright ! If be whom mutual league, 
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
Join'dwith me once, now misery hath join'd 
In equal ruin ! Into what pit thou seest, 
From what highth fallen ; so much the stronger proved 
He with his thunder: and till then who knew 
The force of those dire arms ? Yet not for those, 
Nor what the potent victor in his rage 
Can else inflict, do 1 repent or change, 
Though changed in outward lustre, that fix'd mind, 
And high disdain from sense of injured merit, 
That with the Mightiest raised me to contend, 
And to the fierce contention brought along 
Innumerable force of Spirits arm'd, 
That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring, 
His utmost power with adverse power opposed 
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, 
And shook his throne. What though the field be lost ? 
All is not lost ; the unconquerable will, 
And study of revenge, immortal hate, 



MILTON. 133 

And courage never to submit or yield, 
And what is else not to be overcome ; 
That glory never shall his wrath or might 
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace 
With suppliant knee, and deify his power, 
Who from the terror of this arm so late 
Doubted his empire ; that were low indeed, 
That were an ignominy, aud shame beneath 
This downfal : since, by fate, the strength of Gods 
And this empyreal substance caonot fail ; 
Since through experience of this great event 
In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced, 
We may with more successful hope resolve 
To wage, by force or guile, eternal war 
Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, 
Who now triumphs, and, in the' excess of joy 
Sole reigning, holds the tyranny of Heaven. 

So spake the' apostate Angel, though in pain, 
Vaunting aloud, but rack'd with deep despair: 
And him thus answer'd soon his bold compeer. 

O Prince, O Chief of many throned Powers, 
That led the' embattled Seraphim to war 
Under thy conduct, and in dreadful deeds 
Fearless endanger'd Heaven's perpetual king, 
And put to proof his high supremacy, 
Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or fate ; 
Too well I see and rue the dire event, 
That with sad overthrow, and foul defeat, 
Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mightv host 
In horrible destruction laid thus low, 
As far as Gods and heavenly essences 
Can perish : for the mind and spirit remain 
Invincible, and vigour soon returns, 
Though all our glory' extinct, and happy state 
Here swallow'd up m endless misery. 
But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now 
Ot force believe Almighty, since no less 
Thau such could have o'erpower'd such force as ours) 
Have left us this our spirit and strength entire 
Strongly to suffer and support our pains, 
That we may so suffice his vengeful ire, 
Or do him mightier service as his thralls 
By right of war, whate'er his business be, 
Herein the heart of Hell to work in fire, 
Or do his errands in the gloomy deep ; 
What can it then avail, though yet we feel 
Strength undiminish'd, or eternal being, 



134 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

To undergo eternal punishment? 

Whereto with speedy words the' Archfiend replied. 

Fallen Cherub ! to be weak is miserable, 
Doing or suffering : but of this be sure, 
To do aught good never will be our task, 
But ever to do ill our sole delight, 
As being the contrary to his high will 
Whom we resist. If then his providence 
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, 
Our labour must be to pervert that end, 
And out of good still to find means of evil ; 
Which oft-times may succeed, so as perhaps 
Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb 
His inmost counsels from their destine'd aim. 
But see ' the angry Victor hath recall'd 
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 
Back to the gates of Heaven : the sulphurous hail, 
Shot after us in storm, o'erblown, hath laid 
The fiery surge, that from the precipice 
Of Heaven receive'd us falling ; and the thunder, 
Wing'd with red lightning and impetuous rage, 
Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now 
To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. 
Let us not slip the' occasion, whether scorn, 
Or satiate fury, yield it from our Foe. 
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, 
The seat of desolation, void of light, 
Save what the glimmering of these livid flames 
Casts pale and dreadful ? Thither let us tend 
From off the tossing of these fiery waves ; 
There rest, if any rest can harbour there; 
And, re-assembling our afflicted Powers, 
Consult how we may henceforth most offend 
Our Enenvy ; our own loss how repair ; 
How overcome this dire calamity ; 
What reinforcement we may gain from hope - y 
If not, what resolution from despair. 



ON THE AGENCY OF SUPERNATURAL BEINGS. 

Of all the poets who have introduced into their works the agency 
of supernatural beings, Milton has succeeded best. — But as this is 
a point on which many rash and ill considered judgments have 



MILTON. 135 

been pronounced, we feel inclined to dwell on it a little longer. — 
The most fatal error which a poet can commit in the management 
of his machinery, is that of attempting to philosophize too much. 
Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits many func- 
tions of which spirits must be incapable. But these objections, 
though sanctioned by eminent names, originate, we venture to say, 
in profound ignorance of the art of poetry. 

What is spirit ? What are our own minds, the portion of spirit 
with which we are best acquainted ? We observe certain pheno- 
mena. We cannot explain them into material causes. We there- 
fore infer that there exists something which is not material. But 
of this something we have no idea. We can defiue it only by 
negatives. We can reason about it only by symbols. We use the 
word; but we have no image of the thing; and the business of 
poetry is with images, and not with words. The poet uses words 
indeed ; but they are merely the instruments of his art, not its ob- 
jects. They are the materials which he is to dispose in such a 
manner as to present a picture to the mental eye. And, if they 
are not so disposed, they are no more entitled to be called poetry 
than a bale of canvas and a box of colours to be called a painting. 

Logicians may reason about abstractions. But the great mass 
of mankind can never feel an interest in them. They must have 
images. The strong tendency of the multitude in all ages and na- 
tions to idolatry can be explained on no other principle. The 
first inhabitants of Greece, there is every reason to believe, wor- 
shipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having some- 
thing more definite to adore, produced, in a few centuries, the in- 
numerable erowd of Gods aud Goddesses. In like manner the 
ancient Persians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a 
human form. Yet even these transferred to the suu the worship 
which, speculatively, they considered due only to the Supreme 
Mind. The history of the Jews is the record of a continued strug- 
gle between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible sanctions, 
and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible and tan- 
gible object of adoration. — God, the uncreated, the incomprehen- 
sible,, the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher 

o 2 



136 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

might admire so noble a conception : but the crowd turned away 
in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. — 
Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle 
which had assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Pa- 
ganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of household gods. St. 
George took the place of Mars, St. Elmo consoled the mariner for 
the loss of Castor and Pollux. The Virgin Mother and Cecilia 
succeeded to Venus and the Muses, The fascination of sex and 
loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity; and the 
homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Reformers 
have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with 
more than apparent an 1 partial success. The men who demolished 
the images in Cathedrals have not always been able to demolish 
those which were enshrined in their minds. 

From these considerations, we infer, that no poet, who should 
affect that metaphysical accuracy, for the want of which Milton 
has been blamed, would escape a disgraceful failure. Still, how- 
ever, there was another extreme which, though far less dangerous, 
was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in a great 
measure under the control of their opinions. The most exquisite 
art of poetical colouring can produce no illusion, when it is em- 
ployed to represent that which is at once perceived to be incon- 
gruous and absurd. Milton wrote in an age of philosophers and 
theologians. It was necessary therefore for him to abstain from 
giving such a shock to their understandings as might break the 
charm which it was his object to throw over their imaginations. — 
This is the real explanation of the indistinctness and inconsistency 
with which he has often been reproached. Dr. Johnson acknow- 
ledges that it was absolutely necessary for him to clothe his spirits 
with material forms. " But,'' says he, " he should have secured 
the consistency of his system by keeping immateriality out of sight, 
and seducing the reader to drop it from his thoughts." This is 
easily said ; but what if he could not seduce the reader to drop it 
from his thoughts ? What if the contrary opinion had taken so full 
a possession of the minds of men as to leave no room even for the 
quasi belief which poetry requires ? Such we suspect to have been 



MILTON. 137 

the case. It was impossible for the poet to adopt altogether the ma- 
terial or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand on 
the debateable ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He has 
doubtless by so doing, laid himself open to the charge of incon- 
sistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we caunot 
but believe that he was poetically in the right. This task, which 
almost any other writer would have found impracticable, was easy 
to him. The peculiar art which he possessed of communicating 
his meaning circuitously, through a long succession of associated 
ideas and of intimating more than he expressed, enabled him to 
disguise those incongruities which he could not avoid. 

Edinburgh Review, August, 1825. 



SATAN HEARS HIS STANDARD, AND COMFORTS 

HIS COMPEERS WITH THE HOPE OF 

REGAINING HEAVEN. 

Satan commands, that at the warlike sound 
Of trumpets loud and clarions be upreare'd 
His mighty standard : that proud honour claim'd 
Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall ; 
Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurl'd 
The imperial ensign ; which, full high advanced, 
Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, 
With gems and golden lustre rich emblaze'd, 
Seraphic arms and trophies ; all the while 
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds : 
At which the universal host up sent 
A shout, that tore Hell's concave, and beyond 
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
Ten thousand banners rise into the air 
With orient colours waving: with them rose 
A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms 
Appear'd, and serried shields* in thick array 
Of depth immeasurable : Anon they move 
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood 

* Locked together one within another, 

o3 



138 THE POETICAL REVIEW, 

Of flutes and soft recorders; such as raise'd 
To height of noblest temper heroes old 
Arming to battle; and instead of rage 
Deliberate valour breathe'd, firm and unmoved 
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat; 
Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage 
With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase 
Anguish, and doubt, and fear, and sorrow, and pain. 
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, 
Breathing united force, with fixed thought, 
Move'd on in silence to soft pipes, that charmed 
Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil : and now 
Advance'd in view they stand; a horrid front 
Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise 
Of warriors old with order'd spear and shield \ 
Awaiting what command their mighty Chief 

Had to Impose.- He, above the rest 

In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 

Stood like a tower : his form had yet not lost 

All her original brightness; nor appear'd 

Less than Archangel ruin'd, and the excess 

Of glory' obscure'd : as when the sun, new risen, 

Looks through the horizontal misty air 

Shorn of his beams;* or from behind the moon, 

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 

On half the nations, and with fear of change 

Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 

Above them all the' Archangel : but his face 

Deep scars of thunder had intrench'd : and care 

Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 

Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride 

Waiting revenge: cruel bis eye, but cast 

Signs of remorse and passion, to behold 

The fellows of his crime, the followers rather 

(Far other once beheld in bliss), condemn'd 

For ever now to have their lot in pain ; 

Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced 

Of Heaven, and from eternal splendours flung 

For his revolt; yet faithful how they stood, 

Their glory wither'd : as from Heaven's fire 

Hath scathe'd the forest oaks, or mountain pines, 

With singed top their stately growth, though bare, 

Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepare'd 



■ In this passage, the loftiness of the stature, and fixed firmness of Satan;, 
are the only points of correspondence between the fallen angel and the tower. 
And when the poet has swelled the mind with these gigantic images, he sad- 
dens it by a second comparison with the sun "shorn of his beams." This 
commingling of great and gloomy images is the grand sublime.— Rev. C. 
Newtonx 



MILTON. 139 

To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend 
From wing to wing, and half enclose bim round 
With all his peers . Attention held them mute. 
Thrice he essay'd, aud thrice, in spite of scorn, 
Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth : at last 
Words, interwove with sighs, found out their way. 

O Myriads of immortal Spirits!* O Powers 
Matchless, but with the Almighty ! and that strife 
Was not inglorious, though the event was dire 
As this place testifies, and this dire change 
Hateful to utter : but what power ofmir.d, 
Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
Of knowledge past or present, could have fear'd. 
How sueh united force of Gods, how such 
As stood like these, could ever know repulse? 
For who can yet believe, though after loss, 
That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascend 
Self-rais'd, and repossess their native seat? 
For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 
If counsels different, or dangers shunn'd 
By me have lost our hopes. But he, who reigns 
Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure 
Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute, 
Consent or custom ; and his regal state 
Put forth at full, but still his strength conceal'd, 
Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall. 
Henceforth his might we know, and kuow our own ,' 
So as not either to provoke, or dread 
New war, provok'd : our better part remains 
To work in close design, by fraud or guile, 
What force effected not : that he no less 
At length from us may find, who overcomes 
By force, hath overcome but half his foe. 
Space may produce new worlds ; whereof so rife 
There went a fame in Heaven that he ere long 
Intended to create, and therein plant 
A generation, whom his choice regard 
Should favour equal to the sons of Heaven : 
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 

' The Spirits of Milton are unlike those of almost all other writers. His 
Fiends, in particular, are wonderful creations. They are not metaphysical 
abstractions. They are not wicked men. They are not ugly beasts. They 
have no horns, no tails, none of the fee-faw-fum of Tasso and Klopslock. — 
They have just enough in common with human nature to be intelligible to 
human beings. Their characters arc, like their forms, marked by a certain 
dim resemblance to those of men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, 
and veiled in mysterious gloom.— Edinburgh Review, August, 1825.— [Ed.~] 



140 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Our first eruption ; thither or elsewhere : 
For this infernal pit shall never hold 
Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the' abyss 
Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts 
Full counsel must mature : Peace is despair'd ; 
For who can think submission ? War then, War 
Open or understood must be resolved. 

He spake : and, to confirm his words, out flew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
Of mighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
Far round illumine'd hell: Highly theyrage'd 
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
Clash'd on their sounding shields the din of war, 
Hurling defiance toward the vault of heaven. 



THE ALMIGHTY'S SPEECH TO HIS SON, WHO 
HAD OFFERED HIMSELF A RANSOM 

FOR MAN. 

Milton's system of theology has been characterized as a cornbin* 
ation of " arianism, anabaptism, latitudinarianism, quakerism, 
and (in reference to his opinions on polygamy) mohammedism." 
No existing sect can lay claim to the honour or the shame of hav- 
ing engendered the theological monster, upon which is entailed 
the fate of all hybrids ; it will perpetuate no new variety. No 
Miltonists will arise to form an article in the catalogue of sects and 
opinions. As a theologist, not less than as a poet, Milton must 
stand alone. The Baptists disown him; theSocinians can have no 
fellowship with him ; he soars above the Arians ; he would not be 
admitted among the gentle followers of Penn. Too heterodox 
for the orthodox, he is by far too orthodox for the sceptical and 
misbelieving school. In short, he must be admitted to rank within 
the pale of the true church, from the impossibility of classing him 
with any other than devout and faithful men. But within that 
divine inclosure, he dwells apart, an intellectual hermit, a sect con- 



MILTON. 141 

sisting of the individual, a genus with one species, in society with 
himself. Yet though thas isolated as regards his opinions, he is 
no sectarian in spirit, but most truly Catholic. 

Eclectic Review, Jan. 1826. 

O thou in Heaven and Earth the only peace 
Found out for mankind under wrath ! O thou 
My sole complacence ! well thou know'st how dear 
To me are all my works, nor man the least, 
Though last created ; that for him I spare 
Thee from my bosom and right hand, to save, 
By losing thee a while, the whole race lost. 
Thou, therefore, whom thou only canst redeem, 
Their nature also to thy nature join ; 
And be thyself Man among men on earth, 
Made flesh, when time shall be, of virgin seed, 
By wondrous birth : Be thou in Adam's room 
The head of all mankind, though Adam's son, 
As in him perish all men, so in thee, 
As from a second root, shall be restore'd 
As many as are restore'd, without thee none. 
His crime makes guilty all his sons ; thy merit, 
Imputed, shall absolve them who renounce 
Their own both righteous and unrighteous deeds, 
And live in thee transplanted, and from thee 
Receive new life. So Man, as is most just, 
Shall satisfy for man, be judged and die, 
And dying rise, and rising with him raise 
His brethren, ransom'd with his own dear life. 
So heavenly love shall outdo hellish hate, 
Giving to death, and dying to redeem ; 
So dearly to redeem what hellish hate 
So easily destroy'd, and still destroys 
In those who, when they may, accept not grace. 
Nor shalt thou, by descending to assume 
Man's nature, lessen or degrade thine own. 
Because thou hast, though throne'd in highest bliss 
Equal to God, and equally enjoying 
God-like fruition, quitted all, to save 
A world from utter loss, and hast been found 
By merit more than birthright Son of God, 
Found worthiest to be so by being good, 
Far more than great or high ; because in thee 
Love hath abounded more than glory' abounds j 
Therefore thy' humiliation shall exalt 
With thee thy manhood also to this throne : 
Here thou shalt sit incarnate, here shalt reign 
Both God and Man, Sou both of God and Man,, 



142 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

• 
Anointed universal King ; all power 
[ give thee; reign for ever, and assume 
Thy merits ; under thee, as head supreme, 
Thrones, Princedoms, Powers, Dominions I reduce : 
All knees to thee shall how, of them that bide 
In Heaven, or Earth, or under Earth in Hell. 
When thou, attended gloriously from Heaven, 
Shalt in the sky appear, and from these send 
The summoning Archangels to proclaim 
Thy dread tribunal ; forthwith from all winds, 
The living, and forthwith the cited dead 
Of all past ages, to the general doom 
Shall hasten ; such a peal shall rouse their sleep. 
Then, all thy saints assembled, thou shalt judge 
Bad Men and Angels ; they, arraign'd shall sink 
Beneath thy sentence ; Hell, her numbers full, 
Thenceforth shall be for ever shut. Meanwhile 
.The world shall burn, and from her ashes spring 
New Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell, 
And, after all their tribulations long, 
See golden days fruitful of golden deeds, 
With joy and love triumphing, and fair truth. 
Then thou thy regal sceptre shalt lay by, 
For regal sceptre then no more shall need, 
God shall be all in all. But, all ye Gods, 
Adore him, who to compass all this dies ; 
Adore the Sou, and honour him as me. 



SONG OF THE ANGELS AFTER THE 
ALMIGHTY'S SPEECH. 

No sooner had the' Almighty cease'd, but all 
The multitude of Angels, with a shout 
Loud as from numbers without number, sweet 
As from bless'd voices, uttering joy, Heaven rung 
With jubilee, and. loud Hosannas fill'd 
Th*' eternal regions: Lowly reverent 
Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground 
With solemn adoration down they cast 
Their crowns inwove with amaraut and gold ; 
Immortal amarant, a fiowt-r which once 
In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
Began to bloom ; but soon for mau's offence 
To Heaven remove'd, where first it grew, there grows 
And flowers aloft shading the fount of life, 



MILTON. 143 

And where the river of bliss through rnidst of Heaven 

Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream ; 

With these that never fade the Spirits elect 

Bind their resplendent locks inwreathe'd with beams ; 

Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright 

Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone, 

Impurpled with celestial roses smiled. 

Then, crown'd again, their golden harps they took, 

Harps ever tune'd, that glittering by their side 

Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet 

Of charming symphony they introduce 

Their sacred song, and waken raptures high ; 

No voice exempt, no voice but well could join 

Melodious part, such concord is in Heaven. 

Thee, Father, first they sung Omnipotent, 
Immutable, Immortal, Infinite, 
Eternal King ; the Author of all being, 
Fountain ot light, thyself invisible 
Amidst the glorious brightness where thou sit'st 
Throne'd inaccessible, but when thou shadest 
The full blaze of thy beams, and, through a cloud 
Drawn round about thee like a radiant shrine, 
Dark with excessive bright thy skirts appear ;* 
Yet dazzle Heaven, that brightest Seraphim 
Approach not, but with both wings veil their eyes. 
Thee next they sang of all creation first, 
Begotten Son, Divine Similitude, 
In whose conspicuous countenance, without cloud 
Made visible, the' Almighty Father shines, 
Whom else no creature can behold ; on thee 
Impress'd the' effulgence of his glory' abides, 
Transfuse'd on thee his ample Spirit rests. 
• He Heaven of Heavens aud all the Powers therein 
By thee created ; and by thee threw down 
The' aspiring Dominations : Thou that day 
Thy Father's dreadful thunder didst not spare, 
Nor stop thy flaming chariot wheels, that shook 
Heaven's everlasting frame, while o'er the necks 
Thou drove'st of warring Angels disarray'd. 
Back from pursuit thy Powers with loud acclaim 
Thee only' extoll'd, Son of thy Father's might, 
To execute fierce vengeance on his foes, 

* Wht an idea of glory! not even the skirts to be looked ou by the 
beings nearest to God, but when doubly or trebly shaded by a cloud and 
both wings. What then is the full blaze !— Richardson. The effulgence of 
splendour described in this line as surrounding the Deity, is one of the 
happiest and most picturesque images ever couceived by human imagin- 
ation — /. Williams. 



144 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Not so on Man : Him through their malice fallen, 
Father of mercy' and grace, thou didst not doom 
So strictly, but much more to pity' incline : 
No sooner did thy dear and only Son 
Perceive thee purpose'd not to doom frail Man 
So strictly, but much more to pity' incline'd, 
He to appease thy wrath, and end the strife 
Of mercy' and justice in thy face discern'd, 
Regardless of the bliss wherein he sat 
Second to thee, offered himself to die 
For Man's offence. O unexampled lo\e ! 
Love no where to be found less than Divine ! 
Hail, Son of God, Saviour of Men ! Thy name 
Shall be the copious matter of my song 
Henceforth, and never shall my heart thy praise 
Forget, nor from thy Father's praise disjoin. 



SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 

This address of Satan to the sun, has been thought by almost 
every commentator on Paradise Lost, as among the first beauties, 
if not the very first, in the whole poem. There is something very 
striking in the recollection brought to the Arch-fiend's mind by 
the view of the sun. Whether this be alike common to spirits and 
to men, I will not determine ; but certain it is, let a man fall into 
sin, and let that sin be so perpetrated that either place or person 
where, or before whom it was committed, be afterwards brought 
before the mind, either in reality or in memory, it brings with it 
the image of the whole offence. Thus the sons of Jacob when in 
Egypt, from the prison their consciences had then in prospect, 
called to remembrance the pit from whence they had sold their 
brother, instantly connected their impending punishment with 
their former guilt, and brought the whole together. The sight of 
the sun brought to Satan's remembrance, both his former state, 
and the rebellion which cast him down. I do not venture to call 
in question the correctness of our great poet in what follows, of 
the devil's confession of his sin, and the Lord's just punishment of 
it. There will be a day when the Lord will judge the world in 



MILTON. 145 

righteousness, and all shall acknowledge, both men and devils, the. 
just judgment of God. But during the present time-state of the 
world, it is not in exact agreement with the obduracy of devils to 
confess either their own sin, or God's justice. We must overlook, 
however, the correctness of the statement of our poet in respect to 
the truth of it on scripture grounds, to admire the beauty of the 
description ; than which nothing cau be more admirably drawn. 

DR. HAWKER. 

Satan, now first inflam'd with rage, came down, 
The tempter ere the accuser of mankind, 
To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss 
Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell : 
Yet, not rejoicing in his speed, though bold 
Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast, 
Begins his dire attempt ; which nigh the birth 
Now rolling boils in his tumultuous breast, 
And like a devilish engine back recoils 
Upon himself; horror and doubt distract 
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir 
The Hell within him ; for within him Hell 
He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell 
One step, no more than from himself, can fly 
By change of place : Now conscience wakes despair, 
That slumber'd ; wakes the bitter memory 
Of what he was, what is, and what must be 
Worse; of worse deeds worse suffering must ensue. 
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view 
Lay pleasant, his griev'd look he fixes sad ; 
Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun, 
Which now sat high in his meridian tower : 
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began : 

O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd, 
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God 
Of this new world ; at whose sight all the stars 
Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call, 
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, 

Sun! to tell thee how 1 hate thy beams, 
That bring to my remembrance from what state 

1 fell, how glorious once above thy sphere ; 
Till pride and worse ambition* threw me down 
Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King : 

* The poet seems to mean by pride, the vice considered in itself; and, by 
ambition, the vice that carried him to aim at being equal with God, Satan 
always lays the bhme on his ambition.— Bishop Newton, 



14f> THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Ah, wherefore ! he deserved no such return 

From me, whom he created what I was 

In that bright eminence, and with his good 

Upbraided none ; nor was his service hard. 

What could be less than to afford him praise, 

The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, 

How due ! yet all his good prov'd ill in me, 

And wrought but malice ; lifted up so high 

I 'sdein'd subjection, and thought one step higher 

Would set me high'st, and in a moment quit 

The debt immense of endless gratitude, 

So burdensome still paying, still to owe : 

Forgetful what from him I still receiv'd, 

And understood not that a grateful mind 

By owing owes not, but still pays, at once 

Indebted and discharg'd ; what burden then ? 

O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd 

Me some inferior Angel, I had stood 

Then happy ; no unbounded hope had rais'd 

Ambition ! Yet why not ? some other Power 

As great might have aspir'd, and me, though mean, 

Drawn to his part ; but other Powers as great 

Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 

Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. 

Hadst thou the same free-will and power to stand ? 

Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to' accuse, 

But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all? 

Be then his love accurs'd, since love or hate, 

To me alike, it deals eternal woe. 

Nay, curs'd be thou; since against his thy will 

Chose freely what it now so justly rues. 

Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 

Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 

Which way I fly is Hell ; myself am Hell ; 

And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep 

Still threatening to devour me opens wide, 

To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven. 

O, then, at last relent : Is there no place 

Left for repentance, none for pardon left? 

None left but by submission ; and that word 

Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 

Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd 

With other promises and other vaunts 

Than to submit, boasting I could subdue 

The' Omnipotent. Ah me ! they little know 

How dearly I abide that boast so vain, 

Under what torments, inwardly I groan, 

While they adore me on the throne of Hell. 

With diadem and sceptre high advanc'd, 

The lower still I fall, only supreme 



MILTON. 147 

In misery : Such joy ambition finds. 

But say I could repent, and could obtain, 

By act of grace, my former state ; how soon 

Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay 

What feign'd submission swore ? Ease would recant 

Vows made in pain, as violent and void. 

For never can true reconcilement grow, 

Where wounds of deadly hate have pierc'd so deep : 

Which would but lead me to a worse relapse 

And heavier fall ; so should I purchase dear 

Short intermission bought with double smart. 

This knows my Punisher ; therefore as far 

From granting he, as I from begging, peace ; 

All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead 

Of us out-cast, exil'd, his new delight, 

Mankind created, and for him this world. 

So farewell, hope : and with hope farewell, fear ; 

Farewell, remorse ! all good to me is lost ; 

Evil, be thou my good ; by thee at least 

Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold, 

By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;* 

As Man, ere long, and this new world shall know. 



DESCRIPTION OF PARADISE. 

From Hell we flee to Paradise, a region as lovely as Hell is terri- 
ble, and which to those who do not know the universality of true 
genius, will appear doubly wonderful, when considered as the 
creation of the same mind which had painted the infernal world. 

Paradise and its inhabitants are in sweet accordance, and toge- 
ther form a scene of tranquil bliss, which calms and' soothes, whilst 
it delights the imagination. Adam and Eve, just moulded by the 
hand, and quickened by the breath of God, reflect in their coun- 
tenances and forms, as well as minds, the intelligence, benignity, 
and happiness of their author. Their new existence has the fresh- 



* i. e. Evil be thou my good ; be thou all ray delight, all ray happiness ; by 
*hee I hold at least divided empire with Heaven's King: at present I rule in 
Hell, as God in Heaven : and in a short time will reign perhaps more than 
half in this new world as well as in Hell, as man ere long, and this new 
world shall know.— Bishop Newton. 

p2 



148 THE TOETICAL REVIEW. 

ness and peacefulness of the dewy morning. Their souls, unsated 
and untainted, find an innocent joy in the youthful creation, 
which spreads and smiles around them. Their mutual love is deep, 
for it is the love of young, unworn, unexhausted hearts, which 
meet in each other the only human objects on whom to pour forth 
their fullness of affection ; and still it is serene, for it is the love 
of happy beings, who know not suffering even by name, whose in- 
nocence excludes not only the tumults but the thought of jealousy 
and shame, who " imparadis'd in one another's arms," scarce 
dream of futurity, so blessed is their present being. We will not 
say that we envy our first parents ; for we feel that there may be 
higher happiness than theirs, a happiness won through struggle with 
inward and outward foes, the happiness of power and moral vic- 
tory, the happiness of disinterested sacrifices and wide spread love, 
the happiness of boundless hope, and of " thoughts which wander 
thro' eternity." Still there are times, when the spirit, oppressed 
with pain, worn with toil, tired of tumult, sick at the sight of guilt, 
wounded in its love, baffled in its hope, and trembling in il& faith, 
almost longs for the " wings of a dove, that it might fly away," 
and take refuge amidst the " shady bowers," the " vernal airs," 
the " roses without thorns," the quiet, the beauty, the loveliness 
of Eden. dr. channing. 

Satan to the border comes 
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, 
As with a rural mound, the champaign head 
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides 
With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, 
Access denied ; and overhead up grew 
Insuperable highth of loftiest shade, 
Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, 
A silvan scene ; and, as the ranks ascend 
Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops 
The verdurous wall of Paradise up sprung : 
Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
Into his nether empire neighbouring round. 
And higher than that wall a circling row 
Of goodliest trees, laden with fairest fruit, 
Blossoms and truits at once of golden hue 



MILTON. 149 

Appear'd, with gay enamel' d colours mix'd ; 

On which the sun more glad impress' d his beams 

Than on fair evening cloud or humid bow, 

When God hath shower'd the earth ; so lovely seem'd 

That landscape : and of pure now purer air 

Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 

Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 

All sadne-s but despair : Now gentle gales, 

Fauning their odoriferous wings, dispense 

Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 

Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail 

Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are pass'd 

Mozambic,* off at sea north-east winds blow 

Sabeauf odours from the spicy shore 

Of Araby the bless'd; with such delay 

Well pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league 

Cheer'd with the grateful smell old Ocean smiles : 

So entertaiu'd those odorous sweets the Fiend 

Who came their bane ; though with them better pleas'd 

Than Asmodeus with the fishy fume 

That drove him, though enamour'd from the spouse 

Of Tobit's son, and with a vengeance sent 

From Media Post to Egypt, there fast bound.J 

Now to the' ascent of that steep savage hill 
Satan had journey'd on, pensive and slow : 
But further way found none, so thick entwin'd, 
As one continued brake, the undergrowth 
Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplex'd 
All path of man or beast that pass'd that way. 
One gate there only was, and that look'd east 
On the other side : which when the' Arch-felon saw, 
Due entrance he disdain'd : and, in contempt, 
At one slight bound high overleap'd all bound 
Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within 
Lights on his feet. As when a prowling wolf, 
Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for prey, 
Watching where shepherds pen their flocks at eve 
In hurdled cotes amid the field secure 
Leaps o'er the fence with ease into the fold : 
Or as a thief, bent to unhoard the cash 
Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors, 
Cross barr'd and bolted fast, fear no assault, 
Iu at the window climbs, or o'er the tiles : 
So clomb this first graud thief into God's fold ; 

* An island on the coast of Africa. 
•t An epithet derived from Saba, a city of Arabia Felix, or "Araby the 
bless'd." 

t See the book of Tobit, in the Apocrypha. 

p"3 



J 50 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

So since into his church lewd hirelings climbv 

Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life, 

The middle tree and highest there that grew, 

Sat like a cormorant ; yet not true life 

Thereby regain'd, but sat devising death 

To them who hVd ; nor on the virtue thought 

Of that life-giving plant, but only used 

For prospect, what well used had been the pledge 

Of immortality. So little knows 

Any, but God alone r to value right 

The good before him, but perverts best things 

To worst abuse or to their meanest use. 

Beneath him with new wonder now he views, 

To all delight of human sense expos'd, 

In narrow room, Nature's whole wealth, yea more. 

A Heaven on Earth : For blissful Paradise 

Of God the garden was, by him in the' east 

Of Eden planted ; Eden stretch'd her line 

From Auran* eastward to the royal towers 

Of great Selucia, built by Grecian kings, 

Or where the sons of Eden long before 

Dwelt in Telassar :f In this pleasant soil 

His far more pleasant garden God ordain'd ; 

Out of the fertile ground he caus'd to grow 

All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste ', 

And all amid them stood the tree of life, 

High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 

Of vegetable gold • and' next to life, 

Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by, 

Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill. 

Southward through Eden went a river large. 

Nor chang'd his course, but through the shaggy hill 

Pass'd underneath ingulf d; for God had thrown 

That mountain as his garden mound high raised 

Upon the rapid current, which, through veins 

Of porous earth with kindly thirst updrawn, 

Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill 

Water'd the garden ; thence united fell 

Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, 

Which from his darksome passage now appears,. 

And now, divided into four main streams, 

Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm 

And country, whereof here needs no account ; 

But rather to tell how, if Art could tell, 

How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks^ 

Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, 

With mazy error under pendent shades 

* Or Haran the chief city of Mesopotamia. 
t Soleuciaand Telassar were cities of Mesopotamia, 



MILTON. 15 J 

Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed 

Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art 

In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon 

Pour'd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, 

Both where the morning sun first warmly smote 

Tbe open field, and where the unpierc'd shade 

Imbrown'd the noontide bowers : Thus was this place 

A happy rural seat of various view ; 

Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm 7 

Others whose fruit, burnish d with golden rind, 

Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true, 

If true, here only, and of delicious taste : 

Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks 

Grazing the tender herb, were interpos'd, 

Or palmy hillock ; or the flowery lap 

Of some irriguous valley spread her store, 

Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose : 

Another side, umbrageous grots and caves 

Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine 

Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps 

Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall 

Down the slope hills, dispers'd, or in a lake, 

That to the fringed bank with myrtle crown'd 

Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams, 

The birds their quire apply : airs, vernal airs. 

Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune 

The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, 

Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, 

Led on the' eternal Spring.* There the Fiend 

Saw undelighted, all delight, all kind 
Of living creatures, new to sight, and strange. 
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
Godlike erect, with native honour clad 
In naked majesty, seem'd lords of all: 
And worthy seem'd ; for in their looks divine 
The image of their glorious Maker shone, 
Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure, 
(Severe, but in true filial freedom placed), 
Whence true authority in men ; though both 
Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd ; 
For contemplation he and valour form'd ; 
For softness she and sweet attractive grace ; 
He for God only, she for God in him: 
His fair large front and eve sublime declar'd 
Absolute rule ; and hyacinthine locks 
Round from his parted forelock manly hung 

* The ancients personized eveiy thing, the Graces are the beautiful sea- 
sons, and the Hours are the time requisite for the production and perfection 
of things. — Richardson. 



152 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad ; 
She, as a veil, down to the slender waist 
Her unadorned golden tresses wore 
Dishevel'd, but in wanton ringlets wav'd 
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implied 
Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway, 
And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd; 
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, 
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delav. 



CONJUGAL FELICITY. 

The speech of Adam to Eve is wonderfully expressive, in denoting 
somewhat characteristic of the man. It is equally interesting with 
that of our first mother's ; but is more expressive, as suited to the 
great father of the human race, masculine, noble, and godly. — 
Adam, as his office taught him, in the midst of all the affection of 
the husband, calls Eve's attention to the higher concern of love 
and obedience to Him from whom all their mercies came, the Lord 
God and Creator of both. And it is not the smallest excellence of 
our first father's address to our first mother, that he calls her at- 
tention and dwells with peculiar earnestness upon the uulooked 
for and altogether unmerited blessings which they were called into 
being to enjoy. '" Who at his hand,'' saith Adam, "have nothing 
merited, nor can perform." These points are certainly interesting, 
and they form the prominent beauties m Adam's speech ; though 
it should be observed, that they contain no less the utmost tender- 
ness and love to her, the " sole partner and sole part" of all 
his joys. 

In the speech of Eve we discover the most engaging, affectionate, 
and delicate expressions, suited and graceful in the female cha- 
lacter. That indescribable softness, that winning manner, that 
certain attracting love which captivates as if without design, the 
every endearment which can make us love our first fair mother in 
her original state of unfallen innocence, tender, beautiful, aud un- 
conscious of ill — all are blended in the view given us in her speech 



MILTON. 153 

to Adam. And what a world of sweetness is there m the account 
she gives of the consciousness of being to which she awoke at her 
creation ! How struck with the resemblance of herself in the wa- 
ter's surface ! The effect she felt in first hearing her own voice ; 
insensibly following the invitation of it until she found herself in 
Adam's presence ; the feelings of her mind when first beholding 
the majesty of her husband in his manhood, while observing at the 
same time less loveliness of soft attraction than in her own image 
in the river — these, with several other beauties, are described with 
such artless simplicity and such unblushing gracefulness (for inin- 
nocency there existed no cause for shame) as perhaps are not ex- 
celled in any part of this first of all poems, and no where equalled 
in any other composition merely human, but such only as are found 
in other portions of Paradise Lost. dr. hawker. 



Sole partner and sole part of all these joys, 
Dearer thyself than all ; needs must the Power 
That made us, and for us this ample world, 
Be infinitely good, and of his good 
As liberal and free as infinite . 
That rais'd us from the dust, and plac'd us here 
In all this happiness, who at his hand 
Have nothing merited, nor can perform 
Aught whereof he hath need; he who requires 
From us no other service than to keep 
This one, this easy charge, of all the trees 
In Paradise that bear delicious fruit 
So various, not to taste that only tree 
Of knowledge, planted by the tree of life : 
So near grows death to life, whate'er death is, 
Some dreadful thing no doubt ; for well thou know'st 
God hath pronounc'd it death to taste that tree, 
The only sign of our obedience left, 
Among so many signs of power and rule 
Conferr'd upon us, and dominion given 
Over all other creatures that possess 
Earth, air, and sea. Then let us not think hard 
One easy prohibition, who enjoy 
Free leave so large to all things else, and choice 
Unlimited of manifold delights : 
But let us ever praise him, and extol 
His bounty, following our delightful task, 
To prune these growing plants and tend these flowers 
Which were it toilsome, yet with thee were sweet. 



154 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

To whom thus Eve replied : O thou for whom 
And from whom I was form'd, flesh of thy flesh, 
And without whom am to no end, my guide 
And head ! what thou hast said is just and right. 
For wt to him indeed all praises owe 
And daily thanks; I chiefly, who enjoy 
So far the happier lot, enjoying thee 
Pre-eminent hv so much odds, while thou 
Like consort to thyself canst no where find. 
That day I oft remember, when from sleep 
I first awak'd, and found myself repos'd 
Under a shade on flowers, which wondering where 
And what I was, whence thither brought and how. 
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound 
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread 
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmov'd 
Pure as the expanse of Heaven ; I thither went 
With unexperienc'd thought, and laid me down 
On the green bank, to look into the clear 
Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky. 
As I bent down to look, just opposite 
A shape within the watery gleam appear'd, 
Bending to look on me : I started back ; 
It started back : but pleased I soon return'd ; 
Pleas'd it return'd as soon with answering looks 
Of sympathy and love : There I had fix'd 
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, 
Had not a voice thus warn'd me ; " What thou seest, 
What there thou seest, lair Creature, is thyself; 
With thee it came and goes : but follow me, 
And I will bring thee where no shadow stays 
Thy coming, and thy soft embraces, he 
Whose image thou art ; him thou shalt enjoy 
Inseparably thine, to him shalt bear 
Multitudes like thyself, aud thence be calFd 
Mother of human race." What could I do, 
But follow straight, invisibly thus led? 
Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall, 
Under a platane ; yet me thought less fair, 
Less winning soft, less amiably mild, 
Thau that smooth watery image : back I turn'd ; 
Thou following criedst aloud, " Return, fair Eve ; 
Whom fliest <hou ? whom thou fliest, of him thou art, 
His flesh, his bone ; to give thee being I lent 
Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, 
Substantial life, to have thee by my side 
Henceforth an individual solace dear; 
Part of my soul I seek thee, and thee claim 
My other half:" With that thy gentle hand 
Seized mine: I yielded; and from that time see 



MILTON. 155 

How beauty is excell'd by manly grace, 
And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. 

So spake our general mother, and with eyes 
Of conjugal attraction unreprov'd, 
And meek surrender, half-embracing lean'd 
On our first father; half her swelling breast 
Naked met his, under the flowing gold 
Of her loose tresses hid : he in delight, 
Both of her beauty and submissive charms, 
Smil'd with superior love, as Jupiter 
On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds 
That shed May flowers; and press'd her matron lip 
With kisses pure. 



CONVERSATION OF ADAM AND EVE ON 
RETIRING TO REST. 

Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray 
Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, 
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; 
She all night long her amorous descant sung; 
Silence was pleas'd : Now glow'd the firmament 
With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
The starry host rode brightest, till the moon, 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light, 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 

When Adam thus to Eve : Fair Consort, the hour 
Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, 
Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
Labour and rest, as day and night to men 
Successive; and the timely dew of sleep, 
Now falling with soft slumbrous weight, inclines 
Our eyelids : Other creatures all daylong 
Rove idle, unemployed, and less need rest ; 
Man hath his daily work of body' or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
And the regatd of heaven on all his ways ; 
While other animals inactive range, 
And of their doings God takes no account. 



156 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
And at our pleasant labour, to reform 
Yon flowery arbours, yonder alleys green, 
Our walk at noon with branches overgrown, 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth : 
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth, 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease ; 
Meanwhile, as Nature wills, night bids us rest. 

To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty' adorn'd, 
My Author and Disposer, what thou bidd'st 
Unargued I obey : So God ordains : 
God is thy law, thou mine : To know no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise. 
With thee conversing, I forget all time ; 
All seasons, and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth 
After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful Evening mild ; then silent Night, 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train : 
But neither breath of Morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
Glistering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ; 
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent Night, 
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, 
Or glittering starlight, without thee, is sweet. 
But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom 
This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes ? 

To whom our general ancestor replied : 
Daughter of God and Man, accomplish'd Eve, 
These have their course to finish round the earth, 
By morrow evening, and from land to laud 
In order, though to nations yet unborn, 
Ministering light prepar'd, they set and rise ; 
Lest total Darkness should by night regain 
Her old possession, and extinguish life 
In Nature and all things ; which these soft fires 
Not only' enlighten, but with kindly heat 
Of various influence foment and warm, 



MILTON. 157 

Temper or nourish, or in part shed down 

Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 

On earth, made hereby apter to receive 

Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 

These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 

Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none, 

That Heaven would want spectators, God want praise. 

Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 

Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep ; 

All these with ceaseless praise his works behold 

Both day and night : How often from the steep 

Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 

Celestial voices to the midnight air, 

Sole, or responsive each to other's note, 

Singing their great Creator ? oft in bands 

While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 

With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 

In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 

Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. 

Thus talking, hand in hand alone they pass'd 
On to their blissful bower : it was a place 
Chosen by the Sovran Planter, when he fram'd 
All things to Man's delightful use : the roof 
Of thickest covert was inwoven shade 
Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew 
Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side 
Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, 
Feuc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower, 
Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine, 
Rear'd high their flourished heads between, and wrought 
Mosaic ; underfoot the violet, 
Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay 
Broider'd the ground, more colour'd than with stone 
Of costliest emblem : Other creatures here, 
Bird, beast, insect, or worm, durst enter none, 
Such was their awe of Man. 

Thus, at their shady lodge arriv'd, both stood, 
Both turn'd, and under open sky ador'd 
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven, 
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, 
And starry pole : Thou also mad'st the night, 
Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day 
Which we, in our appointed work employ'd, 
Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help 
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss 
Ordain'd by thee : and this delicious place 
For us too large, where thy abundance wants 



158 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Partakers, and uncropp'd falls to the ground. 
But thou hast promis'd from us two a race 
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake 
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. 



ADAM AND EVE'S MORNING HYMN. 

The morning hymn is written in imitation of one of those psalms, 
where, in the overflowings of gratitude and praise, the psalmist 
calls not only upon the angels, but upon the most conspicuous 
parts of the inanimate creation, to join with him in extolling their 
common Maker. Invocations of this nature fill the mind with 
glorious ideas of God's works, and awaken that divine enthusiasm,^ 
which is so natural to devotion. But if this calling upon the dead- 
parts of nature, is at all times a proper kind of worship; it was in 
a particular manner suitable to our first parents, who had the cre- 
ation fresh upon their minds, and had not seen the various dispen- 
sations of Providence, nor consequently could be acquainted with 
those many topics of praise which might afford matter to the de- 
votions of their posterity. I need not remark the beautiful spirit 
of poetry which runs through the whole hymn, or the holiness of 
that resolution with which it concludes. addison. 

Soon as they forth were come to open sight 
Of day-spring, and the sun, who, scarce uprisen, 
With wheels yet hoveriug o'er the ocean-brim, 
Shot parallel to th' earth his dewy ray, 
Discovering in wide landscape all the east 
Of Paradise and Eden's happy plains ; 
Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began 
Their orisons, each morning duly paid 
In various style ; for neither various style 
Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise 
Their Maker, in fit strains pronounc'd, or sung 
Unmeditated : such prompt eloquence 
Flow'd from their lips, in prose or numerous verse, 
More tuneable than needed lute or harp, 
To add more sweetness; and they thus began : 






MILTON. 159 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous then ! 
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven. 
On Earth join, all ye creatures, to extol 
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
And when high noon hast gaiu'd, and when thou fall'st. 
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest, 
With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their orb that flies •> 
And, ye five other wandering Fires, that move 
In mystic dance not without song, resound 
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 
Air, and, ye Elements, the eldest birth 
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion ruu 
Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix 
And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye Mists and Exhalations, that dow rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
In honour to the world's great Author rise; 
Whether to deck with clouds the' uncolour'd skv, 
Or whet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
Rising or falling still advauce his praise. 
His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, 
Breathe soft or loud ; and, wave your tops, ye Pines, 
With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
Fountains, and ye that warble, aa ye flow, 
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
Join voices, all ye living Souls: Ye Birds, 
That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend, 
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, aud stately tread or lowly creep : 
Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 

Q 2 



160 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, 
Made vocal by my song, aud taught his praise. 
Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
To give us only good ; and if the night 
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd, 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark ! 



MESSIAH ROUTS THE SATANIC HOSTS 

Those who look into Homer, are surprised to find his battles still 
rising one above another, and improving in horror, to the conclu- 
sion of the Iliad. Milton's fight of angels is wrought up with the 
same beauty. It is ushered in with such signs of wrath as are suit- 
able to Omnipotence incensed. The first engagement is carried 
on under a cope of fire, occasioned by the flights of innumerable 
burning darts and arrows which are discharged from each host. 
The second onset is still more terrible, as it is filled with those ar- 
ficial thunders, which seem to make the victory doubtful, and pro- 
duce a kind of consternation even in the good angels. This is 
followed by the tearing up of mountains and promontories; till 
in the last place Messiah comes forth in the fullness of majesty 
and terror. The pomp of his appearance amidst the roarings of 
his thunders, the flashes of his lightnings, and the noise of his 
chariot wheels is described with the utmost flights of imagination* 

ADDISON. 

Messiah, o'er his sceptre bowing, rose 
From the right hand of Glory where he sat ; 
And the third sacred morn began to shine, 
Dawning through Heaven. Forth rush'd with whirlwind 

sound 
The chariot of Paternal Deity, 
Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel undrawn, 
Itself instinct with Spirit, but convoy'd 
By four Cherubic shapes ; four faces each 
Had wondrous ; as with stars, their bodies all 
And wings were set with eyes ; with eyes the wheels 
Of beryl, and careering fires between ; 
Over their heads a crystal firmament, 



MILTON. 161 

Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure 

Amber, and colours of the showery arch. 

He, in celestial panoply all arin'd 

Of radiant Urira, work divinely wrought, 

Ascended ; at his right hand Victory 

Sat eagle-wiug'd ; beside him hung his bow 

And quiver with three-bolted thunder stor'd ; 

And from about him fierce effusion roll'd 

Of smoke and bickering flame and sparkles dire ; 

Attended with ten thousand thousand Saints, 

He onward came ; far off his coming shone; 

And twenty thousand (I their number heard) 

Chariots of God, half on each hand, were seen ; 

He on the wings of Cherub rode sublime 

On the crystalline sky, in sapphire thron'd, 

Illustrious far and wide ; but by his own 

First seen; them unexpected joy surpris'd, 

When the great ensign of Messiah blaz'd 

Aloft by Angels borne, his sign in Heaven ; 

Under whose conduct Michael soon reduc'd 

His army, circumfus'd on either wing, 

Under their Head embodied all in one. 

Before him Power Divine his way prepar'd ; 

At his command the' uprooted hills retir'd 

Each to his place ; they heard his voice, and went 

Obsequious ; Heaven his wonted face renew'd, 

And with fresh flowerets hill and valley smil'd. 

This saw his hapless foes, but stood obdur'd, 

And to rebellious fight rallied their Powers, 

Insensate, hope conceiving from despair. 

In heavenly Spirits could such perverseness dwell ? 

But to convince the proud what signs avail, 

Or wonders move the obdurate to relent ? 

They, harden'd more by what might most reclaim, 

Grieving to see his glory, at the sight 

Took envy ; and, aspiring to his height, 

Stood re- embattled fierce, by force or fraud 

Weening to prosper, and at length prevail 

Against God and Messiah, or to fall 

In universal ruin last ; and now 

To final battle drew, disdaining flight, 

Or faint retreat ; when the great Son of God 

To all his host on either hand thus spake : 

Stand still in bright array, ye Saints ; here stand, 
Ye Angels arm'd ; this day from battle rest : 
Faithful hath been your warfare, and of God 
Accepted, fearless in his righteous cause ; 
And as ye have received, so have ye done, 

Q3 



162 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Invincibly : but of this cursed crew 
The punishment to other hand belongs ; 
Vengeance is his, or whose he sole appoints . 
Number to this day r s work is not ordain'd, 
Nor multitude ; stand only, and behold 
God's indignation on these godless pour'd, 
Ey me; not you, hut me they have despised, 
Yet envied : against me is all their rage, 
Because the Father, to' whom in Heaven supreme 
Kingdom and power and glory appertains, 
Hath honour'd me, according to his will. 
Therefore to me their doom he hath assign'd ; 
That they may have their wish, to try with me 
In battle which the stronger proves ; they all, 
Or I alone against them ; since by strength 
They measure all, of other excellence 
Not emulous, nor care who them excels ; 
Nor other strife with them do I vouchsafe. 

So spake the Son, and into teiror chang'd 
His count'nance too severe to be beheld, 
And full of wrath bent on his enemies. 
At once the Four spread out their starry wings 
With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs 
Of his fierce chariot roll'd, as with the sound 
Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. 
He on his impious foes right onward drove, 
Gloomy as night; under his burning wheels 
The steadfast empyrean shook thoughout 
All but the throne itself of God. Full soon 
Among them he arriv'd ; in his right hand 
Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent 
Before him, such as in their souls infix' d 
Plagues : they, astonish'd, all resistance lost, 
All courage ; down their idle weapons dropp'd : 
O'er shields and helms and helmed heads he rode 
Of Thrones and mighty Seraphim prostrate, 
That wish'd the mountains now might be again 
Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire. 
Nor less on either side tempestuous fell 
His arrows, from the fourfold-visag'd Four 
Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels 
Distinct alike with multitude of eyes ; 
One Spirit in them rul'd ; and every eye 
Glar'd lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire 
Among th' accurs'd, that wither' d all their strength. 
And of their wonted vigour left them drain'd, 
Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen. 
Yet half his strength he put not forth, but check'd 
His thunder in mid volley ; for he meant 



MILTON. 163 

Not to destroy, but root them out of Heaven : 
The overthrown he rais'd ; and, as a herd 
Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, 
Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursu'd 
With terrors, and with furies, to the bounds 
And crystal wall of Heaven ; which, opening wide, 
Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclosed 
Into the wasteful deep : the monstrous sight 
Struck them with horror backward, but far worse 
Urged them behind : headlong themselves they threw 
Down from the verge of Heaven ; eternal wrath 
Burn'd after them to the bottomless pit. 

Hell heard the unsufferable noise, Hell saw 
Heaven ruining* from Heaven, and would have fled 
Affrighted ; but strict Fate had cast too deep 
Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound. 
Nine days they fell : confounded Chaos roar'd, 
And felt tenfold confusion in their fall 
Through his wild anarchy, so huge a rout 
Encumber'd him with ruin : Hell at last 
Yawning receiv'd them whole, and on them clos'd ; 
Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire 
Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain. 
Disburden'd Heaven rejoic'd, and soon repair'd 
Her mural breach, returning whence it roll'd. 
Sole victor, from the' expulsion of his foes, 
Messiah his triumphal chariot turn'd : 
To meet him all his Saints, who silent stood 
Eye-witnesses of his almighty acts, 
With jubilee advauc'd; and, as they went, 
Shaded with branching palm, each Order bright 
Sung triumph, and him sung victorious King, 
Son, Heir, and Lord, to him dominion given, 
Worthiest to reign : He, celebrated, rode 
Triumphant through mid Heaven, into the courts 
And temple of his Mighty Father throu'd 
Ou high ; who into glory him receiv'd, 
Where now he sits at the right hand of bliss. 



* From the Ttalian, and signifies fa lling headlong— an idea replete with 
force in this connection. 



164 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

L' ALLEGRO, OR THE CHEERFUL MAN. 

In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more hap- 
pily displayed than in the Allegro and the Peuseroso. It is im- 
possible to conceive that the mechanism of language can be 
brought to a more exquisite degree of perfection. These poems 
differ from others as ottar of roses differs from ordinary rose 
water, the close packed essence from the thin diluted mixture. 
They are indeed not so much poems, as collections of hints from 
each of which the reader is to make out a poem for himself 
Every epithet is a text for a Canto. 

Edinburgh Review, August, 1825. 



I set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to visit a place 
where Milton spent some part of his life, and where, in all proba- 
bility, he composed several of his earliest productions. It is a 
small village, situated on a pleasant hill, about three miles from 
Oxford, and called Forest Hill, because it formerly lay contiguous 
to a forest, which has since been cut down. The poet chose this 
place of retirement after his first marriage; and he describes the 
beauties of his retreat in that fine passage of his L' Allegro : — 

" Strait mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
Whilst the landscape round it measures: 
Russet lawns, and fallows grey, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains on whose barren breast, 
The labouring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
Towers and battlements it sees. 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 

Hard by a cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks." &c. 



MILTON. 165 

It was neither the proper season of the year nor the time of the day 
to hear all the rural sounds, and see all the objects mentioned in 
this description ; but, by a pleasing concurrence of circumstances, 
we were saluted, upon our approach to the village, with the music 
of the mower and his scythe ; we saw the ploughman intent upon 
his labour, and the milkmaid returning from her country employ- 
ment. 

As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful objects, the 
agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of the whole scene, gave 
us the. highest pleasure. We at length reached the spot whence 
Milton undoubtedly took most of his images : it is on the top of 
the hill, from which there is a most extensive prospect on all sides : 
the distant mountains that seem to support the clouds, the villages 
and turrets, partly shaded with trees of the finest verdure, and 
partly raised above the groves that surrounded them, the dark plains 
and meadows of a greyish colour, where the sheep were feeding 
at large ; in short, the view of the streams aud rivers, convinced 
us that there was not a single useless or idle word in the above 
mentioned description, but that it was a most exact and lively re- 
presentation of nature. Thus will this fine passage, which has al- 
ways been admired for its elegance, receive an additional beauty 
from its exactness. After we had walked, with a kind of poetical 
enthusiasm, over this enchaated ground we returned to the village. 

It must not be omitted that the groves near this village are 
famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in the 
Penseroso. Most of the cottage windows are overgrown with 
sweetbriars, vines, and honey-suckles; and that Milton's habita- 
tion had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his de- 
scription of the lark bidding him good-morrow, 

Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine : 

For it is evident, that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by the 
eglantine ; though that word is commonly used for the sweetbriar, 
which he could not mention twice in the same couplet- 

SIR WILLIAM JONES. 



166 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Hence loathed Melancholy, 
Of Cerberus, and blackest Midnight born, 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, 
Find out some uncouth cell, 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, 
And the night raven sings; 

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian* desart ever dwell. 

But come thou Goddess fair and free, 
In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
With two sister Graces more 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 
Or whether (as some sages sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 
As he met her once a Maying, 
There on beds of violets blue, 
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, 
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, 
So bucksom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest and youthful Jollity, 
Quips and Cranks,f and wanton Wiles, 
Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, 
Such as hang on Hebe's iheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
Sport that wrinkled care derides, 
And, Laughter, holding both his sides, 
Come, and trip it as you go 
On the light fantastic toe, 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And, if I give thee honour due, 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
To live, with her, and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free ; 
To hear the lark begin his flight, 
And singing startle the dull night,, 
From his watch tower in the skies, 



* Cimmerian— an epithet formed from Cimmerii, a people who inhabited 
Campania, and lived in caves near the sea shore, 
-r A quip is a satirical joke, a smart repartee ; a crank is a gambol. 



MILTON. 167 

'Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
And at. my window bid good -morrow, 
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine : 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before : 
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill, 
Through the high wood echoing shrill : 
Sometime walking not unseen 
By hedge-row elms, of hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate, 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Rob'd in flames, and amber light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight, 
While the plough-man near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrow' d land, 
And the milk-maid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe,- 
And every shepherd tells his tale* 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
Whilst the landscape round it measures, 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray* 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The labouring clouds do often rest, 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees, 
Bosom'd high in tufted treees, 
Where perhaps some beauty lies 
The Cynosuref of neighbouring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Cory don and Thyrsis met, 
Are at their savoury dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses ; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves, 



* The word (ale here does not mean stories told by shepherds, it is a 
technical term for numbering sheep. 

t The polar star. 



168 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or if the earlier season lead 

To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebecks* sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid, 
Dancing in the chequer' d shade ; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sunshine holiday, 
Till the live-long day -light fail ; 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
With stories told of many a feat, 
How fairy Mab the junketsf eat ; 
She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said, 
And he, by friar's lanthorn led, 
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn 
That ten day-labourers could not end ; 
Then lies him .down the lubbar fiend, 
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
And cropful out of doors he flings, 
Ere the first cock his mattin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 
By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 
Tow'red cities please us then; 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saffron robe, with tapir clear, 
And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
With mask and antique pageantry, 
Such sights as youthful poets dream, 
On Summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's Child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

* A three-stringed fiddle. + Sweetmeats. 



MILTON. *69 

And ever against eating cares 
Lap me in sofc Lydian airs, 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden souls of Harmony ; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, aud hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regain'd Eurydice. 

These delights if thou can'st give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



ON MELANCHOLY. 

Philosophers have divested themselves of their natural apathy, 
and poets have risen above themselves in descanting on the plea- 
sures of melancholy. There is no mind so gross, no understand- 
ing so uncultivated, as to be incapable, at certain moments, and 
amid certain combinations, of feeling that sublime influence upon 
the spirits which steals the soul from the petty anxieties of the 
world, 

" And fits it to hold converse with the gods." 

I must confess, if such there be who never felt the divine abstrac- 
tion, I envy them not their insensibility. For my own part, it'is 
from the indulgence of this soothing power that I derive the most 
exquisite gratifications ; at the calm hour of moonlight, amid all 
the sublime serenity, the deep stillness of the night ; or when the 
howling storm rages in the heavens, the rain pelts on my roof, 
and the winds whistle through the crannies of my apartment, I 
R 



170 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

feel the divine mood of melancholy; I imagine myself placed 
upon an eminence, above the crowds who paut below in the dusty 
tracks of wealth and honour. The black catalogue of crimes and 
of vice; the sad tissue of wretchedness and woe, pass in review 
before me, and I look down upon man with an eye of pity and 
commisseration. Though the scenes which I survey be mourulul, 
and the ideas which they excite equally sombre; though the tears 
gush as I contemplate them, and my heart feels heavy with the 
sorrowful emotions which they inspire; yet are they not unaccom- 
panied with sensations of the purest and most ecstatic bliss. 

It is to the spectator alone that melancholy is forbidding; in 
herself she is soft and interesting, and capable of affording pure 
and unalloyed delight. Ask the lover why he muses by the side of 
the purling brook, or plunges into the deep gloom of the forest ? 
Ask the unfortuna f e why he seeks the still shades of solitude ? or 
the man who feels the pangs of disappointed ambition, why he re- 
tires into the silent walks of seclusion ? and he will tell you that 
he derives a pleasure therefrom, which nothing else can impart. 
It is the delight of melancholy; but the melancholy of these 
beings is as far removed from that of the philosopher, as are the 
narrow and contracted complaints of selfishness, from the mourn- 
ful regrets of expansive philanthropy; — as are the desponding in- 
tervals of insanity, from the the occasional depressions of benevo- 
lent sensibility. h. k. white. 



IL PENSEROSO, OR THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 

Hence vain deluding joys, 
The brood of Folly, without father bred ? 
How little you bested, 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 



MILTON. 171 

But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy, 
Hail divinest Melancholy, 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view, 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 
Black, but such as in esteem, 
Prince Memnen's sister might beseem, 
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen* that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea nymphs, and their powers offended : 
Yet thou art higher far descended ; 
The bright hair'd Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore ; 
His daughter she {in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain) 
Oft in glimmering bowers, and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure. 
Sober, stedfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain, 
Flowing with majestic train, 
And sable stole of cypress lawn, 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
•Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
With even step, and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes ; 
There, held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad leaden downward cast, 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet, 
And hear the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 



" Cassiope, the wife of Cepheus, king of Ethiopia, boasted that she was 
more beautiful than the sea nymphs. The Nereids, in revenge of their in- 
sulted beauty, persuaded Neptune to send a prodigioDS monster into Ethio- 
pia to ravage the country. Cassiope, to appease this monster, was directed to 
expose her daughter Andromeda; but Perseus delivered Andromeda, of 
whom he was enamoured, and transported Cassiope into heaven, where she 
l>ecame a constellation. 



172 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring- 
Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Guiding the fiery wheeled throne, 
The cherub Contemplation : 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel* will deign a song, 
In hei sweetest, saddest plight, 
Smoothing the rugged brow of night, 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke, 
Gently o'er the' accustom'd oak ; 
Sweet bird that shun'st the noise of folly, 
Most musical, most melancholy ! 
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, 
I woo to hear thy evening song : 
And missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering moon, 
Riding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heaven's wide pathless way ; 
And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far off Curfew sound, 
Over some wide-water'd shore, 
Swinging slow with sullen roar. 

Or if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit, 
Where glowing embers through the room. 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour, 
Be seen in some high lonely tow'r, 
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, 
With thrice great Hermes, + or unsphere 



* A name that was giveu to the nightingale, because the melancholy 
cast of her song accorded with the situation of Philomela (a daughter of Pan- 
dion, king of Athens,) who died of grief. 

+ Hermes Trismegistus, a priest and philosopher of Egypt, so called 
from his threefold knowledge in the cultivation of the olive, the measuring 
of lands, and the understanding of hieroglyphics. He flourished near the 
time of Moses. 



MILTON. 173 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds, or what vast regions hold 
The' immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshy nook : 
And of those daemons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under groxind. 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 

Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy 
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine, 
Or what (though rare) of later age, 
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 

But, O sad virgin that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
And made hell grant what love did seek : 
Or call up him* that left half-told 
The story of Cambuscan bold,f 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 
And who had Canace to wife, 
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass, 
And of the wond'rous horse of brass, 
On which the Tartar king did ride ; 
And if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung, 
Of forests and enchantments drear, 
Where more is meant than meets the ear, 
Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 
Till civil-suited Morn appear 
Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt, 
But kerchief d in a comely cloud, 
While rocking winds are piping loud 
Or usher'dwith a shower still, 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 

And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring 

* Chaucer. 
An allusion to " The Squieres Tale" which Chaucer left unfinished. 

r3 



174 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

To arched walks of twilight groves, 

And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves. 

Of pine, or monumental oak, 

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke., 

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, 

Or fright them from their, hallotv'd haunt. 

There in close covert by some brook, 

Where no profaner eye may look, 

Hide me from day's garish eye, 

While the bee with honey'd thigh, 

That at her flow'ry work doth sing, 

And the waters mui'muring, 

With such concert as they keep, 

Entice the the dewy-feather'd sleep : 

And let some strange mysterious dream? 

Wave at his wings in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture display'd, 

Softly on my eye-lids laid ; 

And as I wake sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath, 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale, 
And love the high embowed roof, 
With antique pillars massy proof, 
And storied windowsf richly dight,* 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full voiced quire below, 
In service high, and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age, 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth shew, 
And ev'ry herb that sips the" dew ; 
'Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

* Windows on which historical events are painted -r Ornamented, 



MILTON. 175 



SONNET ; ON HIS OWN BLINDNESS. 

This sonnet, though severely simple in style, and remarkably ab- 
rupt in rhythm, is, nevertheless, in quiet grandeur of sentiment, 
one of the noblest records of human feeling, at once subdued and 
sublimed by resignation to the divine will. Milton is never more 
himself than when he speaks of himself. Here we are let into the 
immortal sanctuary of his mind, and hearken (as it were) to the 
invisible Spirit communing with itself, amidst the darkness of ex- 
ternal nature, till light from heaven, suddenly breaking in, reveals 
God in his " kingly state," served equally by those who do, and 
those who suffer his will. j. Montgomery. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide, 

Lodg'd with me useless, tho' my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest he returning chide ; 

Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? 

I fondly ask: But patience to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need 

Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, 

And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait. 



176 THE POETICAL REVIEW, 



JOHN DRYDEN, DIED 1701, AGED 70, 



dryden's poetical character. 

The public voice has assigned to Dryden the first place in the 
second rank of our poets, — no mean station in a table of intel- 
lectual precedency so rich in illustrious names. It is allowed that, 
even of the few who were his superiors in genius, none has exer- 
cised a more extensive or permanent influence on the national 
habits of thought and expression. His life was commensurate with 
the period during which a great revolution in the public taste was 
effected; and in that revolution he played the part of Cromwell. 
By scrupulously taking the lead in its wildest excesses, he obtained 
the absolute guidance of it. By trampling on laws, he acquired 
the authority of a legislator. By signalizing himself as the most 
daring and irreverent of rebels, he raised himself to the dignity of 
a recognized prince. He commenced his career by the most fran- 
tic outrages. He terminated it in the repose of established sov- 
ereignty, — the author of a new code, the root of a new dynasty. 
Edinburgh Review, January, 1828. 



ODE — TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. ANN KILLI- 

GREW, EXCELLENT IN THE TWO SISTER 

ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING. 

This ode, which singularly exhibits the strong grasp and compre- 
hensive range of Dryden's fancy, as well as the harmony of his 
numbers, seems to have been a great favourite of Dr. Johnson, 



DRYDEN. 177 

who in one place, does not hesitate to compare it to the famous 
ode on St. Cecilia; and, in another, calls it "undoubtedly the no- 
blest ode that our language has ever produced."* Although it is 
probable that few will subscribe to the judgment of that great 
critic in the present instance, yet the verses can never be read with 
indifference by auy admirer of poetry. We are, it is true, sometimes 
affronted by a pun, or chilled by a conceit ; but the general power 
of thought and expression resumes its sway, in despite of the in- 
terruption given by such instances of bad taste. In its arrange- 
ment, the ode is what the seventeenth century called Pindaric; 
freed, namely, from the usual rules of order and arrangement. — 
This licence, which led most poets, who exercised it, to extrava- 
gance and absurdity, only gave Dryden a wider scope for the ex- 
ercise of his wonderful power of combining and uniting the most 
dissimilar ideas, in a manner as ingenious as his numbers are har- 
monious. Images and scenes, the richest, though most incon- 
sistent with each other, are swept together by the flood of song ; 
we neither see whence they arise, nor whither they are going; but 
are contented to admire the richness and luxuriance in which the 
poet has arrayed them. The opening of the poem has been highly 
praised by Dr. Johnson. " The first part,'' says that critic, 
" flows with a torrent of enthusiasm, — Ferveb immensmque rxiit. 
All the stanzas, indeed, are not equal. An imperial crown cannot 
be one continued diamond, the gems must be held together by 
some less valuable matter." sir walter scott. 



Thou youngest virgin -daughter of the Skies, 
Made in the last promotion of the bless'd ; 
Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise, 
In spreading branches more sublimely rise, 
Rich with immortal green above the rest : 
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, 
Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race, 

* Dr. Warton severely remarks, that "examples of bad writing, of tumid 
expressions, violent metaphors, far sought conceits, hyperbolical adulations, 
unnatural amplifications, interspersed, as usual, with fine lines, might be col- 
lected from this applauded ode."— The British Review (Oct. 1812.) justly ob- 
serves " we cannot help thinking that a latent grudge against Dr. Johnson 
has produced these animadversions," — Ed. 



178 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Or, in procession fix'd and regular, 

Mov'd with the heavn's majestic pace ; 

Or, call'd to more superior bliss, 

Thou tread'st with seraphims, the vast abyss: 

Whatever happy region is thy place, 

Cease thy celestial song a little space ; 

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, 

Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. 

Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse 

In no ignoble verse; 

But such as thy own voice did practice here, 

When thy first fruits of poesy were giv'n 

To make thyself a welcome inmate there ; 

While yet a young probationer, 

And candidate of Heav'n. 

If by traduction came thy mind, 

Our wonder is the less to find 

A soul so charming from a stock so good ; 

Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood ; 

So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, 

An early, rich, and inexhausted vein, 

But if thy pre-existing soul 

Was form'd, at first with myriads more, 

It did through all the mighty poets roll, 

Who Greek or Latiu laurels wore, 

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 

If so, then cease thy flight, O heav'n born mind ! 

Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore; 

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, 1 

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind : > 

Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. J 

May we presume to say, that at thy birth, 

New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth ? 

For sure the milder planets did combine 1 

On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, > 

And e'en the most malicious were in trine. j 

Thy brother-angels at thy birth 

Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, 

That all the people of the sky 

Might know a poetess was born on earth ; 

And then, if ever, mortal ears 

Had heard the music of the spheres. 

And it no clustering swarm of bees 

On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 

'Twas that such vulgar miracles 

Heaven had not leisure to renew: 

For all thy bless'd fraternity of love 

Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above. 



DRYDEN. J 79 

O gracious God ! how far have we 

Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy ? 

Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 

Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, 

Whose harmony was first oHain'd above 

For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love ? 

O wretched we ! why were we hurried down 

This lubrique and adulterate age, 

(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own) 

To' increase the streaming ordures of the stage • 

What can we say to' excuse our second fall ? 

Let this thy vestal, Heaven, atone for all : 

Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil'd. ) 

Unmix'd with foreign filth, and undefiPd ; C 

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. ) 

Art she had none, yet wanted none, 

For Nature did that want supply ; 

So rich in treasures of her own, 

She might our boasted stores defy : 

Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, 

That it seems borrow'd, where 'twas only born. 

Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, ) 

By great examples daily fed, C 

What iu the best of books, her father's life, she read. \ 

And to be read herself she need not fear ; ) 

Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, C 

Though Epictetus, with his lamp were there. \ 

E'en love, for love sometimes her Mnse exprest 

Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, 

Light as the vapours of a morning dream ; 

So cold herself while she such warmth express'd, 

'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream. 

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, 

One would have thought she should have been content 

To manage well that mighty government ; 

But what can young ambitious souls confine? 

To the next realm she stretch'd her sway, ^ 

For Painture near adjoining lay, C 

A plenteous province, and alluring prey. ) 

A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd, 

(As conquerors will never want pretence, 

When arm'd, to justify the' offence) 

And the old fief, iu right of poetry, she claim'd. 

The country open lay without defence ; 

For poets frequent inroads there had made, 

And perfectly could represent 

The shape, the face, with every lineament, 

And all the large domains which the dumb sister sway'd j 



180 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

All bow'd beneath her government, 
Receiv'd in triumph wheresoe'er she went. 

Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, 

And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in her mind 

The silvau scenes of herds and flocks, 

And fruitful plains, and barren rocks, 

Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear, 

The bottom did the top appear ; 

Of deeper too and ampler floods, 

Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods; 

Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, 

And perspectives of pleasant glades, 

Where nymphs of brightest form appear, 1 

And shaggy Satyrs standing near, > 

Which them at once admire and fear. j 

The ruins, too, of some majestic piece, 

Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, 

Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie, 

And, though defac'd the wonder of the eye ; 

What Nature, Art, bold Fiction, e'er durst frame, 

Her forming hand gave feature to the name. 

So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, 

But when the peopled Ark the whole creation bore. 

The scene then chang'd, with bold erected look 

Our martial King the sight with reverence strook : 

For, not content to' express his outward part, 

Her hand call'd out the image of his heart : 

His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, 

His high-designing thoughts were figur'd there, 

As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. 

Our phcenix Queen waspourtray'd, too, so bright, 

Beauty alone could beauty take so right : 

Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, 

Were all observ'd, as well as heavenly face. 

With such a peerless majesty she stands, 

As, in that day she took the crown from sacred hands, 

Before a train of heroines was seen 

In beauty foremost, as in rank, the Queen. 

Thus nothing to her genius was denied, 

But like a ball of fire, the farther thrown, 

Still with a greater blaze she shone, 

And her bright soul broke out on every side. 

What next she had design'd Heaven only knows : 

To such immoderate growth her conquest rose, 

That Fate alone its progress could oppose. 

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, 
The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, 



DRYDEN. J 81 

Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes ; 

In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. 

Not wit, nor piety could Fate prevent ; 

Nor was the cruel Destiny content 

To finisb all the murder at a blow, 

To sweep, at once her life and beauty too ; 

But, like a harden'd felon, took a pride 

To work more mischievously slow, 

And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. 

O double sacrilege on things divine, 

To rob the relic, and deface the shrine ! 

But thus Orinda died : 

Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate : 

As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate. 

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas 

His waving streamers to the winds displays, 

And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. 

Ah, generous youth, that wish forbear, 

The winds too soon will waft thee here ! 

Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, 

Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home I 

No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, 

Thou hast already had her last embrace. 

But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from tar, 

Among the Pleiads a new kindled star ; 

If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 

'Tis she that shines in that propitious light. 

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, 

To raise the nations under ground; 

When, in the valley of Jehoshaphat, 

The judging God shall close the book of Fate, 

And there the last assizes keep 

For those who wake and those who sleep ; 

When rattling bones together fly, 

From the four corners of the sky ; 

When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, 

Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; 

The sacred Poets first shall hear the sound, 

And foremost from the tomb shall bound, 

For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; 

And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, 

Like mountiug larks, to the new morning sing. 

There thou, sweet saint ! before the quire shalt go, 

As harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show, 

The wav which thou so well hast learn'd below. 



182 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST : AN ODE FOR ST. 
CECILIA'S DAY. 

The universal applause with which this piece has been received, 
is a proof how much more congenial to the mind is the interest 
arising from an historical fact, than that excited by mythological 
or allegorical fiction. Its effect is obviously enhanced by that 
rapid, uninterrupted flow of narration, which does not suffer the 
reader's attention to flag, but carries him on from scene to scene 
with unchecked ardour. It has that unity of subject which is es- 
sential to the production of warm emotions ; and in this respect 
it is widely different in its construction from the generality of 
lyric poems, in which the rule seems to have been, to introduce as 
much variety as possible, with the most sudden and unexpected 
transitions. The changes of measure seem to flow spontaneously 
from those in the action. Perhaps it would not be easy to show 
the exact and exclusive adaptation of each strain to its particular 
subject; yet, in general, the ear is satisfied and recognises that 
concordance between the sound and the sense which it was the 
poet's aim to exhibit. — There is an air of freedom and facility in 
the whole, which renders probable the tradition that it was "struck 
off at a heat;" whereas the ode of Pope on the same occasion 
bears all the marks of study and labour. dr. aikin. 



Alexander's Feast, by Dryden, has gained universal fame, and 
it seems to deserve all the reputation it has attained. It is diffi- 
cult to decide whether the sentiments or the composition merit 
the most praise. The sentiments are admirably suited to the 
personages whom they describe, and the composition is fitted with 
equal propriety to the sentiments. The sentiments are artfully 
contrasted, a circumstance which, added to their natural ex- 
cellence, displays them in the most captivating light. A train of 
grand and sublime thoughts is succeeded by a series of gay and 
pleasant ones ; a set of outrageous and furious conceptions, is 



DRYDEN. 183 

contrasted xith a group of gentle and tender ones. The poet 
shakes the spheres with Jupiter, revels with Bacchus, raves aud 
destroys with the Furies, and drops a tear with his hero over the 
misfortunes of Darius. dr. jamieson. 



Mr. St. John, afterwards Lord Bolinghroke, happening to pay a 
morning visit to Drydeu, found him in an unusual agitation of 
spirits, even to a trembling. On enquiring the cause, " I have 
been up all night," replied the old bard, " my musical friends 
made me promise to write them an ode for their feast of St. 
Cecilia: I have been so struck with the subject which occurred to 
me, that I could not leave it till I had completed it; here it is, 
finished at one sitting." And immediately showed him this ode, 
which places the British lyric poetry above that of any other na- 
tion. — The rapidity, and yet the perspicuity of the thoughts, the 
glow and the expressiveness of the images, those certain marks of 
the first sketch of a master conspire to corroborate the truth of 
the fact. dr. WARTON, 

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son : 
Aloft in awful state 
The god-like hero sate 
On his imperial throne : 
His valiant peers were plac'd around ; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : 
So should desert in arms be crown'd. 
The lovely Thais* by his side 
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride, 
In flower of youth, and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair \ 
Timotheusf plac'd on high, 
Amid the tuneful choir, 



* Thais wasa celebrated beauty of Athens, aud the courtezan of Alexander. 

t There were two bards or rausiciaus, of the name of Timotheus ; one horn 
at Miletus, and the other in Bceotia. The latter of these was the favouriu 
of Alexander. 



s2 



184 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 

The song began from Jove ; 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love !) 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia press'd,* 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world ; 
The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
A present deity ! they shout around; 
A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound ; 
With ravish' d ears, 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod,f 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung ; 
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young : 
The jolly god in triumph comes; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 
Flush'd with purple grace, 
He shews his honest face. 
Now give the hautboys breath — he comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 

Drinking joys did first ordain : 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again; 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 

The master saw the madness rise, 

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 

And while he h^av'n and earth defy'd. 

Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse, 



* This idea is founded on the declaration of Olympia, the mother of Alex- 
ander, that not Philip her husband, but Jupiter in the form of a dragon 
was the progenitor of her illustrious son. 

-r According to Homer, and others of the ancient poets, the nod of Jupiter 
was sufficient to move heaven and earth. 



DRYD£N« 185 

Soft pity to infuse : 
Me sung Darius, great and good ! 
By too severe a fate 
FaJI'n, fall'n, fall'n, fali'n, 
Fall'n from his high estate. 
And welt'ring in his blood : 
Deserted, at his utmost need, 
By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth expos' d he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in his alter'd soul 

The various turns of chance below j 
And now and then a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smil'd to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move s 
For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,* 
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 
Honour but an empty bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying : 

If the world be worth thy winning* 
Think, O think it worth enjoying ! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee; 
Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applauses 
So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause, 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gaz'd on the fair 
Who caus'd his care, 
Sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again. 
At length, with love and wine at once opprest, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast, 

Now strike the golden lyre again : 

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 

Break his bands of sleep asunder, 

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 

Hark, hark, the horrid sound 

Has rais'd up his head, 

• Of all the several modes of music adopted by the ancient Greeks, none 
*v» to tender aud melting; as that borrowed from the luxurious Lydians. 

s3 



186 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

As awak'd from the dead, 

And, amaz'd, he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries :* 
See the furies arise ! 

See the snakes how they rear, 

How they hiss in the air ! 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 

Behold a ghastly band, 

Each a torch in his hand, 
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 

And unburied remain, 

Inglorious on the plain : 

Give the vengeance due 

To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 

How they point to the Persian abodes, 

And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods ! — 
The princes applaud with a furious joy, 
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.f 

Thus, long ago, 

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
While organs yet were mute ; 
Timotheus, to his hreathiug flute 
Aud sounding lyre, 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, aud arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown ; 

He rais'd a mortal to the skies, 

She drew an angel down. 



* The whole train of imagery in this stanza is alive, sublime, and animated 
to an unparalleled degree. — Dr. Warton. 

+ Thais, who accompanied Alexander in his Asiatic expedition, acquired 
such an ascendancy over him, that at her instigation, he burnt the royal 
palace of Persepolis, the capital of the Persian Empire. 



POPE. 18/ 



ALEXANDER POPE, DIED 1744, AGED 56. 



pope's poetical character. 

Pope was not distinguished as a poet of lofty enthusiasm, of strong 
imagination, with a passionate sense of the beauties of nature, or a 
deep insight into the workings of the heart ; but he was a wit, and 
a critic, a man of sense, of observation aud the world, with a keen 
relish for the elegancies of art, or of nature when embellished by 
art, a quick tact for propriety of thought and mauners as estab- 
lished by the forms and customs of society, a refined sympathy 
with the sentiments and habitudes of human life, as he felt them 
within the little circle of his family and frieuds. He was, in a word, 
the poet, not of nature, but of art.* His Muse was on a peace- 
establishment, and grew somewhat effeminate by long ease and in- 
dulgence. He lived in the smiles of fortune, and basked in the 
favour of the great. In his smooth and polished verse we meet 
with no prodigies of nature, but with miracles of wit; the thunders 
of his pen are whispered flatteries; its forked lightnings pointed 
sarcasms; for " the gnarled oak" he gives us " the soft myrtle:" 
for rocks, and seas, and mountains, — artificial grass-plats, gravel 
walks, and tinkling rills; for earthquakes and tempests, the break- 
ing of a flower pot, or the fall of a china jar ; for the tug and war 
of the elements, or the deadly strife of the passions, we have " calm 
contemplation and poetic ease." 



' Pope carried his art to such perfection, as far as poetry is an art, that 
the very excellence proved injurious to his poetical character ; it inspired 
despair, and his baffled rivals fancied they had broken the provoking speli 
by declaring it to be nothing but art .'—Quarterly Review, July, 1820.— lEd.-i 



188 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Yet within this retired and narrow circle how much, and that 
how exquisite, was contained ! What discrimination, what wit, 
what delicacy, what fancy, what lurking spleen, what elegance of 
thought, what pampered refinement of sentiment ! It is like look- 
ing at the world through a microscope, where every thing assumes 
a new character and a new consequence, where things are seen in 
their minutest circumstances and slightest shades of difference ; 
where the little becomes gigantic, the deformed beautiful, and the 
beautiful deformed. The wrong end of the magnifier is, to be sure, 
held to every thing, but still the exhibition is highly curious, and 
we know not whether to be most pleased or surprised. Such, at 
least, is the best account I am able to give of this extraordinary 
man, without doing injustice to him or others. hazlItt. 



ON THE ORDER OF NATURE, 

See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth, 
Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
Around, how wide ! how deep extend below ! 
Vast chain of Being ! which from God began, 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man ; 
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, 
No glass can reach ; from Infinite to thee, 
From thee to Nothing.— On superior pow'rs 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours : 
Or in the full creation leave a void, 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd j 
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 

And, if each system in gradation roll 
Alike essential to th' amazing Whole, 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole must fall. 
Let earth, unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, 
Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky; 
Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd, 
Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world ,• 
Heav'o'e whole foundations to their centre nod, 



POPE. 189 

And Natuie tremble to the throne of God. 

All this dread Order break — for whom ? for thee ? 

Vile worm ! — Oh Madness ! Pride ! Impiety ! 

What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 
To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this geu'ral frame : 
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 
The great directing Mind of All ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul : 
That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in the' ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, 
As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 

Cease then, nor Order Imperfection name : 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
' Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree 
Of bliudness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. 
Submit. — In this or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee ; 
All Chance, Direction, which thou caust not see ; 
All Discord, Harmony not understood ; 
All partial Evil, universal Good : 
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. 



190 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

ON LORD BOLINBROKE'S INFLUENCE 
OVER POPE. 

Lord Bolingbroke somehow obtained an extraordinary ascen- 
dancy over Pope, and led his understanding blindfold, by a parade 
of words and flimsy pretensions to a higher sort of wisdom. The 
true way indeed to seem wise, and to dictate your opinions to 
others, is to pretend to understand what both they and you are 
entirely in the dark about. — Bolingbroke's art in conversation 
appears to have consisted in talking upon subjects supposed to be 
beyond the reach of his hearers, and in deciding confidently upon 
moot points in philosophy. Thus for instance — 

"As to our senses, we are made in the best manner that we possibly could. 
If we were so formed as to see into the most minute configuration of a post, 
we should break our shins against it. We see for use, and not for curiosity. 
Was our sight so fine as to pierce into the internal make of things, we 
•hould distinguish all the fine ducts and the contrivances of each canal for 
the conveyance of the juices in every one of those leaves: but then we 
should lose this beautiful prospect: it would be only a heap and confusion- 
to the eye." — Lord Bolingbroke. 

Now this no more follows, than that it is impossible for the eye 
to be so constructed (as it now is) as to see a leaf and a mountain 
at the same time. If there were none but short-sighted people, 
it would be quite accurate, according to this way of reasoning, to 
conclude, that there could be no other. But on what grounds 
does the noble Lord assume that there could not be a race of 
beings with their organs so constituted as to take in both extremes 
of near and remote ; to unite the powers of the telescope and the 
microscope together ? To say so, would be a most impious and 
unphilosophical limitation of the power of Providence within 
bounds which even the art of man has surpassed. It is true, we 
are not so made; and we do not know of any creature that is so 
made : but it is plainly quite absurd to conclude from this, that 
it is impossible we should have been so made. Again, even allow- 
ing the incompatability of different advantages with a given con 



POPE. 191 

formation, how does this prove that the particular conformation 

we happen to possess is the best of all others ? By changing it 

we should lose something ; but how do we know that we might 

not gain much more than we lose ? The proposition, in short, 

does not make for a system of optimism, but of indifference — for 

a balance of blessings, not an exclusive claim of superiority. 

There are other beings in the world differently constituted from 

us, all benevolently and wisely, and for their good, no doubt, each 

in their kind and degree ; some lower in the scale of existence 

than ourselves; and some higher. That we are here, and for our 

good, is all that we are bound to believe, or permitted to know of 

our present state: but to maintain that our present condition, 

either moral or physical, is the best possible, and that it could 

receive neither addition nor alteration that would not be for the 

worse, is to be " wise above what is written," and is one of those 

scholastic interpolations on the genuine text of common sense and 

true piety, iu which there is neither religion nor philosophy, 

neither wisdom nor humility. — Of such idle maxims, and vain 

sophistry, is the greatest part of the Essay on Man composed ; in 

which Pope did nothing more than translate into sounding verse 

Lord Bolingbroke's hollow reasonings;* who unhappily thought 

himself admitted, by some peculiar privilege, into the cabinet 

council of Nature; and set about balancing the laws of the 

Universe, as he might have done the interests of some petty state 

in Germany. 

Edinburgh Review, May, 1820. 



The late Lord Bathurst repeatedly assured me, that he had read the 
whole scheme of the Essay on Man, in the hand writing of Bolingbroke, and 
drawn up in a series of propositions, which Pope was to versify and illustrate. 
In doing which, our poet, it must he confessed, left several passages so ex- 
pressed, as to be favourable to fatalism and necessity, notwithstanding all the 
pains that can be taken, and the turns that can be given to those passages, to 
place them on the side of religion, and make them coincide with the funda- 
mental doctrines of revelation.— Dr. JParton.—lEd.] 



192 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

ON HAPPINESS. 

Oh Happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 
Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content ! whate'er thy name ; 
That something still which prompts the' eternal sigh, 
For which we bear to live or dare to die ; 
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, 
O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool, and wise. 
Plant of celestial seed ! if dropt below, 
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign 'st to grow ? 
Fair op'ning to some Court propitious shine, 
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine ? 
Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, 
Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ? 
Where grows ? — where grows it not ? If vain our toil, 
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil : 
Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere, 
'Tis nowhere to be found, or ev'ry where; 
'Tis never to be bought, but always free, 
And, fled from monarcbs, St. John !* dwells with thee. 

Ask of tbe Learn'd the way ? The Learn'd are blind ; 
This bids to serve, aud that to shun mankind : 
Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, 
Those call it Pleasure, aud Contentment these ; 
Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; 
Some, swell'd to Gods, confess ev'n Virtue vain ; 
Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, 
To trust in every thing, or doubt of all. 

Who thus define it, say they more or less 
Than this, that Happiness is Happiness ? 

Take Nature's path, and mad Opinions leave : 
AH states can reach it, and all heads conceive ; 
Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell; 
There needs but thinking right, and meaning well ; 
And mourn our various portions as we please, 
Equal is Common Sense, and Common Ease. 

Remember, Man, " the Universal Cause 
" Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws ;" 
And makes what Happiness we justly call 
Subsist not in the good of one, but all. 
There's uot a blessiug Individuals find, 
But some way leans and hearkens to the kind ; 

* Lord Bolingbroke, 



POPE. 193 

No Bandit fierce, no Tyrant mad with pride, 
No cavern'd Hermit, rests self-satisfied : 
Who most to shun or hate Mankind pretend, 
Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend : 
Abstract what others feel : what others think, 
All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink : 
Each has his share ; and who would more obtain 
Shall find, the pleasure pays not half the pain. 

Order is Heav'n's first law ; and this confest, 
Some are, and must be, greater than the rest. 
More rich ; more wise ; but who infers from hence 
That such aie happier, shocks all common sense. 
Heav'n to mankind impartial we confess, 
If all are equal in their Happiness: 
But mutual wants this Happiness increase ; 
All Nature's difference keeps all Nature's peace, 
Condition, circumstance, is not the thing ; 
Bliss is the same in subject or in king ; 
In who obtain defence, or who defend, 
In him who is, or him who finds a friend : 
Heav'n breathes thro' every member of the whole 
One common blessing, as one common soul. 
But Fortune's gifts if each alike possess'd, 
And each were equal, must not all contest? 
If then to all men Happiness was meant, 
God in Externals could not place content. 

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, 
And these be happy call'd, unhappy those; 
But Heav'n's just balance equal will appear, 
While those are plac'd in Hope, and these in Fear : 
Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, 
But future views of better, or of worse. 
Oh sons of earth ! attempt ye still to rise, 
By mountains pil'd on mountains, to the skies ! 
Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, 
And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. 

Know, all the good that individuals find, 
Or God and Nature meant to mere mankind, 
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of Sense, 
Lie in three words, Health, Peace, and Competence. 



194 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



SIR BALAAM. 



This tale of Sir Balaam, his progress and change of manners, 
from being a plodding, sober, plain, and punctual citizen, to his 
becoming a debauched and dissolute courtier and seuator, abounds 
in much knowledge of life, aud many strokes of (rue humour, and 
will bear to be compared with the exquisite history of Corusodes, 
in one of Swift's Intelligencers. dr. warton. 

Where London's column, pointing at the skies 
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; 
There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame, 
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; 
Religious, punctual, frugal, aud so forth ; 
His word would pass for more than he was worth, 
One solid dish his weekly meal affords, 
An added pudding solemuiz'd the Lord's : 
Constant at Church, and 'Change; his gains were sure, 
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. 

The Devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold, 
Aud long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old : 
But Satan now is wiser than of yore, 
And tempts by making rich, not making poor. 

Rous'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep 
The surge, and plunge his Father in the deep ; 
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, 
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. 

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, 
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: 
" Live like yourself," was soon my Lady's word; 
And lo ! two puddings smoak'd upon the board. 

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, 
An honest factor stole a gem away ; 
He pledg'd it to the knight ; the knight had wit, 
So kept the Di'mond, and the rogue was bit. 
Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, 
" I'll now give six-pence where I gave a groat ; 
" Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice — 
" And am so clear too of all other vice." 

The Tempter saw his time ; the work he ply'd ; 
Stocks and Subscriptions pour on every side, 



POPE. 195 

'TjU all the Daemon makes his full descent 
In one abundant show'r of Cent, per Cent. 
Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, 
Then dubs Director, and secures his soul. 

Behold Sir Balaam now a man of spirit, 
Ascribes his gettings to bis parts and merit ; 
What late he call'd a Blessing, now was Wit, 
And God's good Providence, a lucky Hit. 
Things change their titles, as our manners turn : 
His Compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn : 
seldom at Church ('twas such a busy life) 
But duly sent his family and wife, 
There (so the Devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide 
My good old Lady catch'd a cold and died. 

A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight, 
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite : 
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the Fair) 
lhe well bred cuckolds in St. James's air : 
In Britain's Senate he a seat obtains, 
And one more Pensioner St. Stephen gains. 
My Lady folk to play ; so bad her chance, 
He must repair it ; takes a bribe from France : 
lhe House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; 
1 he Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs. 
Wife, son, and daughter, Satan ! are thy own, 
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown ; 
The Devil and the King divide the prize, 
Aud sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.' 



THE MESSIAH. 

Our author, who had reeeived an early tincture of religion, a 
reverence for which he preserved to the last, was with justice con- 
vinced, that the Scriptures of God contained not only the purest 
precepts of morality, but the most elevated and sublime strokes of 
genuine poesy ; strokes, as much superior to any thing Heathenism 
can produce, as is Jehovah to Jupiter. This is the case more 
particularly in the exalted prophecy of Isaiah, which Pope has so 
successfully versified in an Eclogue, that incontestably surpasses 
T 2 



196 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

the Pollio of Virgil : although perhaps the dignity, the energy, 
and the simplicity of the original are in a few passages weakened 
and diminished by florid epithets, and useless circumlocutions. 

DR. WARTON. 



Pope's Messiah leaves all his original productions immeasurably 
behind it, in elevation of thought, affluence of imagery, beauty 
of diction, and fervency of spirit. Indeed this poem is only de- 
preciated in the eyes of ordinary and prejudiced readers by that 
which constitutes its glory and supreme worth — that every senti- 
ment and figure in it is taken directly from the prophecies of 
Isaiah ; compared with which it is indeed but as the moon reflect- 
ing light borrowed from the sun ; yet, considered in itself, it 
cannot be denied, that had Pope been the entire author of the 
poem just as it stands, (or with no other prototype than Virgil's 
Pollio before him) and drawn the whole from the treasures of his 
own imagination, he would have been the first poet in rank, to 
whom this country has given birth ; for in the works of no other 
will be found so many and sueh transcendant excellencies as are 
comprised in this small piece. j. Montgomery. 

Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song ; 
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, 
The dreams of Pindus, and the' Aonian maids, 
Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire 
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire ! 

Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son ! 
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies : 
The' etherial spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
And on its top descends the mystic dove. 
Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r ! 
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; 
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; 



POPE. 197 

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
And white-rob'd Innocence from Heav'n descend. 
Swift fly the years, and rise the' expected morn ! 
O spring to light, auspicious babe, be born. 
See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring ; 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance, 
See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! 
Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply ,• 
The rocks proclaim the' approaching Deity. 
Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies ! 
Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye vallies, rise ; 
With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay; 
Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! 
The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold : 
Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold ! 
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day : 
'Tis he the' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
And bid new music charm the' unfolding ear : 
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear, 
From every face he wipes off every tear. 
In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 
And Hell's grim tyrant feel the' eternal wound. 
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, 
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; 
The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms; 
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, 
The promis'd father of the future age. 
No more shall nation against nati@n rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes. 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 
Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun; 
Their viues a shadow to their race shall yield, 
And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. 
The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
t3 



198 THE POETICAL REVIEW 

And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 

New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 

On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 

The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 

Waste sandy vallies, once perplex'd with thorn. 

The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; 

To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, 

And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead- 

And boys in bowery bands the tiger lead ; 

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 

And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet; 

The smiling infant in his hand shall take 

The ciested basilisk and speckled snake, 

Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey, 

And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 

Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 

Exalt thy towery head, and lift thine eyes ; 

See a long race thy spacious courts adorn, 

See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, 

In crowding ranks on every side arise. 

Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 

See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 

Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 

See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, 

And heap'd with products of Sabaaan springs ; 

For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 

See Heav'n its sparkling portals wide display, 

And break upon thee in a flood of day. 

No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 

Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 

But lost dissolv'd in thy superior rays, 

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 

O'erflow thy courts : the light himself shall shine 

Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! 

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 

Rocks fall to dust and mountains melt away ; 

But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains ; — 

Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns r 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

This ode was written at the desire of Steele ; and our poet in a 
letter to him on that occasion, says, "You have it, as Cowley 



POPE. 199 

calls it, just warm from the brain ; it came to me the first moment 
I waked this morning ; yet you'll see, it was not so absolutely 
inspiration, but that I had in my head, not only the verses of 
Adrian, but the fine fragment of Sappho.'' It is possible, how- 
ever, that our author might have had another composition in his 
head, besides those he here refers to ; for there is a close and sur- 
prising resemblance between this ode of Pope, and an obscure and 
forgotten rhymer of the age of Charles the second, namely Thomas 
Flatman. The following stanza is perhaps the only valuable one 
Flatman has produced. 

" When on my sick bed I languish, 

Full of sorrow, full of anguish, 

Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying, 

Panting, groaning, speechless, 'lying ; 
Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say, 
Be not fearful, come away." 

The third and fourth lines are eminently good and pathetic, and 
the climax well preserved ; the very turn of them is closely copied 
by Pope j as is likewise the striking circumstance of the dying 
man's imagining he hears a voice calling him away. 

DR. VvARTON, 

Vital spark of heav'nly flame ! 

Quit, oh ! quit this mortal frame ! 

Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, 

Oh ! the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me langiiish into life. 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 

Sister spirit, come away. 

What is this absorbs me quite ? 

Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath, 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring : 
Lend, lend your wings ! 1 mount ! I fly ! 
O grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O death ! where is thy sting ? 



200 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



JAMES THOMSON, DIED 1748, AGED 48. 



THOMSON'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

Thomson looks around on Nature and on Life with the eye 
which Nature bestows only on a poet ; the eye that distinguishes 
in every thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which 
imagination can delight to be detained, and with a mind that 
at once comprehends the vast and attends to the minute. The 
reader of " The Seasons" wonders that he never saw before what 
Thomson shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson 
impresses. His descriptions of extended scenes and general effects 
bring before us the whole magnificence of Nature, whether pleas- 
ing or dreadful. The gaiety of Spring, the splendour of Summer, 
the tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, take in their 
turns possession of the mind. The poet leads us through the 
appearances of things as they are successively varied by the vicis- 
situdes of the year, and imparts to us so much of his own enthu- 
siasm, that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with 
his sentiments. or. johnson. 



Thomson is the best of our descriptive poets ; for be gives most 
of the poetry of natural description. Nature in his descriptions 
is seen growing around us fresh and lusty as in itself. We feel 
the effect of the atmosphere, its humidity or clearness, its heat or 
cold, the glow of summer, the gloom of winter, the tender pro- 
mise of the spring, the full overshadowing foliage, the declining 
pomp and deepening tints of autumn. He transports us to the 
scorching heat of vertical suns, or plunges us into the chilling 



THOMSON. 201 

horrors and desolation of the frozen zone. We hear the snow 
drifting against the broken casement without, and see the fire 
blazing on the hearth within. The first scattered drops of a ver- 
nal shower patter on the leaves above our heads, or the coming 
storm resounds through the leafless groves. In a word, he des- 
cribes not to the eye alone, but to the other senses, and to the 
whole man. He puts his heart into his subject, writes as he feels, 
and humanises whatever he touches. He makes all his descriptions 
teem with life and vivifying soul. His faults were those of his 
style — of the author and the man ; but the original genius of the 
poet, the pith and marrow of his imagination, the fine natural 
mould in which his feelings were bedded, were too much for him 
to counteract by neglect, or affectation, or false ornament. 

HAZLITT, 



VERNAL SHOWERS. 

The north-east spends his rage ; he now shut up 
Within his iron cave, the* effusive south 
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven 
Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. 
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 
Scarce staining ether; but, by swift degrees, 
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails 
Along the loaded sky, aud mingling deep 
Sits on the' horizon round a settled gloom : 
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, 
Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, 
And full of every hope and every joy, 
The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 
Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath 
Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 
Or rustliug turn the many twinkling leaves, 
Of aspen tall. The' uncurling floods, diffused 
In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse 
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, 
And pleasing expectation. Herds aud flocks 
Drop the dry sprig, aud mute imploring eye 
The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense, 
The plumy people streak their wings with oil, 
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off: 



202 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

And wait the' approaching sign to strike, at once, 

Into the general choir. Even mouutains, vales, 

And forests seem impatient to demand 

The promis'd sweetness. Man superior walks 

Amid the glad creation, musing praise, 

And looking lively gratitude. At last, 

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields ; 

And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 

Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow, 

In large effusion, o'er the freshen'd world. 

The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard, 

By such as wander through the forest walks, 

Beneath the' umbrageous multitude of leaves. 

But who can hold the shade while Heaven descends 

In universal bounty, shedding herbs 

And fruits and flowers on Nature's ample lap ! 

Swift Fancy fired anticipates their growth ; 

And, while the milky nutrimeut distils, 

Beholds the kindling country colour rouud. 

Thus all day long the full distended clouds 
Indulge their genial stores, and well shower'd earth 
Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life; 
Till, in the western sky, the downward sun 
Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush 
Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam. 
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes 
The' illumined mountain, through the forest streams, 
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist, 
Far smoking o'er the' interminable plain, 
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems. 



INFLUENCE OF SPRING ON BIRDS. 

When first the soul of love is sent abroad, 
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart 
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin, 
In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing, 
And try again the long forgotten strain, 
At first faint warbled. But no sooner grows 
The soft infusion prevalent and wide, 
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows 
In music uuconfin'd. Up springs the lark, 
Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of morn ; 
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts 



THOMSON. 203 

Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse 
Deep tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads 
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, 
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
And woodlark, o'er the kind contending throng 
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length 
Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns 
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought 
Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake, 
The mellow bull-finch answers from the grove : 
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze 
Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these 
Iunumerous songsters, in the freshening shade 
Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, 
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, 
Aid the full concert : while the stockdove breathes 
A melancholy murmur through the whole. 

'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
This waste of music is the voice of love ; 
That even to birds and beasts the tender arts 
Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind 
Try every winning way inventive love 
Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates 
Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around. 
With distant awe, in airy rings they rove, 
Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch 
The cunning, conscious, half averted glance 
Of the regardless charmer. Should she seem 
Softening the least approvance to bestow, 
Their colours burnish, and, by hope inspired, 
They brisk advance ; then, on a sudden struck, 
Retire disorder'd ; then again approach ; 
In fond rotation spread the spotted wing, 
And shiver every feather with desire. 

What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say, 
That, in a powerful language, felt, not heard, 
Instructs the fowls of heaven ? and through their breast 
These arts of love diffuses ? What, but God ? 
Inspiring God ? who, boundless Spirit all, 
And unremitting Energy, pervades, 
Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole. 
He ceaseless works alone ; and yet alone 
Seems not to work : with such perfection framed 
Is this complex stupendous scheme of things. 



204 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

But, though conceal'd to every purer eye 
The' informiug Author in his works appears : 
Chief, lovely Spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes, 
The Smiling God is seen ; while water, earth, 
And air attest his bounty ; which exalts 
The brute creation to this finer thought, 
And annual melts their undesigning hearts 
Profusely thus in tenderness and joy. 



STORM OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING. 

Behold, slow-settling o'er the lurid grove 
, Unusual darkness broods ; and growing gains 
The full possession of the sky, surcharged 
With wrathful vapour, from the secret beds, 
Where sleep the mineral generations, drawn. 
Thence nitre, sulphur, and the fiery spume 
Of fat bitumen, steaming on the day, 
With various tinctured trains of latent flame, 
Pollute the sky, and in yon baleful cloud, 
A reddening gloom, a magazine of fate 
Torment ; till, by the touch etherial roused, 
The dash of clouds, or irritating war 
Of fighting winds, while all is calm below, 
They furious spring. A boding silence reigns, 
Dread through the dun expanse ; save the dull sound 
That from the mountain, previous to the storm, 
Rolls o'er the mutteiing earth, disturbs the flood, 
And shakes the forest-leaf without a breath. 
Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes 
Descend : the tempest-loving raven scarce 
Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze 
The cattle stand, and ou the scowling heavens 
Cast a deploring eye; by man forsook, 
Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast, 
Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave. 

'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all : 
When to the startled eye the sudden glance 
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud ; 
And, following slower, in explosion vast, 
The Thunder raises his tremendous voice. 
At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, 
The tempest growls ; but as it nearer comes, 
And rolls its awful burden on the wind, 



THOMSON. 205 

The lightnings flash a larger curve, and naoe 
The noise astounds : till over head a sheet 
Of livid flame discloses wide; then shuts, 
And opens wider; shuts and opens still 
Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. 
Follows the loosen'd aggravated roar, 
Enlarging, deepening, mingling ; peal on peal 
Crush'd horrible, convulsing heaven and earth. 

Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail, 
Or prone-descending rain. Wide-rent the clouds 
Pour a whole flood ; and yet, its flame unquench'd, 
The' unconquerable lightning struggles through, 
Kagged and fierce, or in red whirling balls, 
And fires the mountains with redoubled rage. 
Black from the stroke, above, the smouldering pine 
Stands a sad shatter' d trunk ; and, stretch'd below, 
A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie : 
Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look 
They wore alive, and ruminating still 
In fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull, 
And ox half-raised. Struck on the castled cliff, 
The venerable tower aud spiry fane 
Resign their aged pride. The gloomy woods 
Start at the flash, and from their deep recess, 
Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shake. 
Amid Carnarvon's mountains rages loud 
The repercussive roar : with mighty crush, 
Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks 
Of Penmanmaur heap'd hideous to the sky, 
Tumble the smitten cliffs : and Snowden's peak, 
Dissolving, instant yeilds his wintry load. 
Far seen, the heights ot heathy Cheviot blaze, 
And Thule bellows through her utmost isles. 



ON THOMSON'S VERSIFICATION. 



ever existed. To begin with the least pleasing part of our subject, 
it is artificial and elaborate ; tumid and pompous ; deserting sim- 
plicity without attaining dignity. It scorns the earth without being 
able to soar into the air. In the best passages of his Poetry, the 
power aud splendour of his thoughts burst through the clouds, in 
V 



206 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

which his versification shrouds them ; and, like the Sun, impart a 
portion of their own lightness to that which would obscure them. 
His ideas spriug up so naturally and unforced, that he seems to 
think himself bound to clothe them in a cumbrous and elaborate 
versification, before he ventures to exhibit them to the world. 
He could not believe that in their naked simplicity and beauty 
they were fit for the public gaze. His versification, however, is 
but the husk and stalk ; the fruit which grows up with them is of 
a delicious taste and flavour. Thomson is the genuine child of 
nature. He seems equally at home in the sun-shine, and in the 
storm ; in the smiling vallies of Arcadia, and in the icy wastes of 
Nova Zembla ; amidst the busy hum of mankind, and the solitude 
and silence of deserts. The following lines present as perfect and 
well defined a picture to the eye, as ever was embodied on the 
canvass: — 

" Home from his morning task the swain retreats, 
His flock before him stepping to the fold : 
While the full-udder'd mother lows around 
The cheerful cottage, then expecting food, 
The food of innocence and health ! the daw, 
The rook, and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks 
That calm the village in their verdant arms, 
Sheltering, embrace, direct their lazy flight: 
Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd 
All the hot noon, till cooler hours arise. 
Faint, underneath, the household fowls convene ; 
And, in a corner of the buzzing shade, 
The house-dog with the vacant greyhound lies, 
Out-stretch'd and sleepy." 

Here the versification is less stilted than that of Thomson 
generally is ; but even here it is loaded with expletives ; such as 
the "mingling boughs," the "household fowls," the "vacant 
greyhound," and " the grey-grown oaks." Thomson's epithets 
are laboured, and encumber instead of assisting his descriptions. 
Shakespear's, on the contrary, are artless, and seem scarcely 



THOMSON. 207 

sought for; but every word is a picture. Instance his description 
of the martlet, building his nest outside Macbeth's castle; — 

" This guest of Summer, 
The temple-haunting maitlet, doth approve, 
By his loved mansionry, that the Heaven's breath 
Smells wooingly here." 

Or his description of the infant sons of Edward the Fourth, 
sleeping in the Tower : — 

" Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
That in their Summer beauty kiss'd each other." 

Again, the following description, in "The Seasons," of that 
period of the year, when the Winter and the Spring are contend- 
ing for the mastery, is perfectly true and natural : 

" As yet the trembling Year is unconfirm'd, 
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze ; 
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
Deform the day delightless; so that scarce 
Tht bittern knows his time, with bill ingulph'd 
To shake the sounding marsh, or from the shore 
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, 
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste " 

But how are the beauty and fidelity of the picture deformed by 
such harsh inversions and tumid epithets as " day delightless," and 
■'■ bill ingulphed." H. neele. 



FIRST APPROACH OF WINTER. 

Now when the cheerless empire of the sky 
To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields, 
And fierce Aquarius stains the' inverted year; 
Hung o'er the furthest verge of heaven, the sun 
Scarce spreads through ether the dejected day. 

u2 



208 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot 
His struggling rays, in horizontal lines, 
Through the thick air; as cloth'd in cloudy storm, 
Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky; 
And, soon descending, to the long dark night, 
Wide-shading all, the prostrate world resigns. 
Nor is the night unwish'd ; while vital heat, 
Light, life, and joy the dubious day forsake. 
Meantime, in sable cincture, shadows vast, 
Deep-ting'd and damp, and congregated clouds, 
And all the vapoury turbulence of heaven, 
Involve the face of things. Thus Winter falls, 
A heavy gloom oppressive o'er the world, 
Through Nature shedding influence malign, 
And reuses up the seeds of dark disease. 
The soul of man dies in him, loathing life, 
And black with more than melancholy views 
The cattle droop ; and o'er the furrow'd land, 
Fresh from the plough, the dun discolour'd flocks, 
Untending spreading, crop the wholesome root. 
Along the woods, along the moorish fens, 
Sighs the sad Genius of the coming storm : 
And up among the loose disjointed cliffs, 
And fractured mountains wild, the brawling brook 
And cave, presageful send a hollow moan, 
Resounding long in listening Fancy's ear. 

Then comes the father of the tempest forth, 
Wrapp'd in black gloom. First joyless rains obscure 
Drive through the mingling skies with vapour foul : 
Dash on the mountain's brow, and shake the woods, 
That grumbling wave below. The' unsightly plain 
Lies a brown deluge; as the low-bent clouds 
Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still 
Combine, and deepening into night shut up 
The day's fair face. The wanderers of heaven, 
Each to his home, retire ; save those that love 
To take their pastime in the troubled air, 
Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. 
The cattle from the' un tasted fields return, 
And ask with meaning lowe, their wanted stalls 
Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. 
Thither the household feathery people crowd, 
The crested cock, with all his female train, 
Pensive, and dripping; while the cottage- hind 
Hangs o'er the' enlivening blaze, and taleful there 
Recouuts his simple frolic: much he talks, 
And much he laughs, nor recks the storm that blows 
Without and rattles on his humble roof. 



THOMSON. 209 

Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swell : d, 
And the mix'd ruin of its banks o'erspread, 
At last the roused-up river pours along : 
Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes, 
From the rude mountain, and the mossy wild, 
Tumbling through rocks abrupt, and sounding far ; 
Then o'er the sanded valley floating spreads, 
Calm, sluggish, silent ; till again, constraiu'd 
Between two meeting hills, it bursts away, 
Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream ; 
There gathering triple force, rapid, and deep, 
It boils and wheels and foams and thunders through. 



THE DRIVING OF THE SNOW, AND A MAN 
PERISHING IN THE STORM. 

Now the keen tempests rise ; and fuming dun 
From all the livid east, or piercing north 
Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb 
A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congeal'd. 
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; 
And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm. 
Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends. 
At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day 
With a continual flow. The cherish' d fields 
Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts 
Along the mazy curreut. Low the woods 
Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun 
Faint from the west emits his evening ray, 
Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, 
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
The works of man. 

As thus the snows arise ; and foul, and fierce, 
All Winter drives along the darken'd air; 
In his own loose revolving fields, the swain 
Disaster' d stands ; sees other hills ascend. 
Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes, 
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain : 
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on 
From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; 
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 

IT 3 



210 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home 

Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth 

In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul; 

What black despair, what horror fill his heart ! 

When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 

His tufted cottage rising through the snow, 

He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 

Far from the track and bless'd abode of man ! 

While round him night resistless closes fast, 

And every tempest howling o'er his head, 

Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 

Then throng the busy shapes into his mind 

Of cover'd pits, un fathom ably deep, 

A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ! 

Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, 

Smooth'd up with snow ; and, what is land, unknown, 

What water, of the still uufrozen spring, 

In the loose marsh or solitary lake, 

Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 

These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks 

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. 

Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 

Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots 

Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, 

His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 

In vain for him the' officious wife prepares 

The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; 

In vain his little children, peeping out 

Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, 

With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 

Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, 

Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 

The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense ; 

And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, 

Lays him along the snows, a stiffen'd corse, 

Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast. 



REFLECTIONS ON A FUTURE STATE. 

'Tis done ! dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, 
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. 
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
How dumb the tuneful ! horror wide extends 
His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! 
See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years, 
Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, 



THOMSON. 211 

Thy sober Autumn fading into age, 
And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 
And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled 
Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
Of happiness ? those longings after fame ? 
I hose restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? 
Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts, 
Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life ? 
All now are vanish' d ! Virtue sole survives, 
Immortal never failing friend of Man, 
His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 
'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 
Of heaven and earth ! awakening Nature hears 
The new creating word, and starts to life, 
In every heighten'd form, from pain and death 
For ever free. The great eternal scheme, 
Involving all, and iu a perfect whole 
Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, 
To reason's eye refined clears up apace. 
Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now, 
Confounded in the dust, adore that Power 
And Wisdom oft arraign'd : see now the cause, 
Why unassuming worth in secret lived, 
And died neglected : why the good man's share 
In life was gall and bitterness of soul : 
Why the lone widow and her orphans pined 
In starving solitude ; while Luxury, 
In palaces, lay straining her low thought,. 
To form unreal wants: why heaven-born truth, 
And moderation fair, wore the red marks 
Of superstition's scourge : why licensed pain, 
That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, 
Embitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd ! 
Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, 
And what your bounded view, which only saw 
A little part, deem'd evil is no more : 
The storms of Wintry Time will quickly pass, 
And one unbounded Spring encircle all. 



HYMN ON A REVIEW OF THE SEASONS. 

Of the Seasons, it may be said, that one of its greatest charms is 
the pure and elevated spirit of devotion which occasionally breaths 
out amidst the reveries of fancy and the descriptions of nature, 



212 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

as though the poet had sudden and transporting glimpses of the 
Creator himself through the perspective of his works ; while the 
crowning Hymn of the whole is one of the most magnificent spe- 
cimens of verse in any language, and only inferior to the inspired 
original in the Book of Psalms, of which it is for the most part a 
paraphrase. J. Montgomery. 

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness, and love. 
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round : the forest smiles ; 
And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; 
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks : 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves, in hollow- whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, 
And spreads a common feast for all that live. 
In Winter awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd. 
Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore, 
And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring : 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; 
Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 



A-.l*.^.v, u,n,i^u^ . jvm, ^.v^.jr Jiriug auu 

Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 



THOMSON. 213 

In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 

One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, 

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes : 

Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms ! 

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 

Who shake the' astonished world, lift high to heaven 

The' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; 

And let me catch it as I muse along. 

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound ; 

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 

Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 

Or bids you roar or bids your roarings fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 

In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, 

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 

Ye forests, bend; ye harvests, wave to Him; 

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 

As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 

Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! best image here below 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 

From world to world, the vital ocean round, 

On Nature write with every beam His praise. 

The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate world, 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 

Retain the sound : the broad responsive lowe, 

Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 

Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 

Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 

The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 

At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 

Crown the great hymn ; in swarming cities vast, 

Assembled men, to the deep organ join 

The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; 

And, as each mingling flame increases each, 

In one united ardour rise to heaven. 



214 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane in every sacred grove ; 
There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll ! — 
For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, 
Or Winter rises in the blackening east ; 
Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting bpam 
Flames on the' Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me : 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full ; 
And where He vital breathes there must be joy. 
When even at last the solemn hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; 
From seeming Evil still educing Good, 
And better thence again, and better still, 
In infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! 
• Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. 



RULE BRITANNIA. 

A wise statesman (and well-he understood human nature,) once 
said, "Let me write the national songs, and let who will make the 
laws, I will govern the people." — That man, whoever he was, to 
whom we are indebted for the words, humble and homely as they 
are, of " God save the King," did more for his country in his day, 
than thousands and tens of thousands of beings, incomparably 
more gifted, have done by the exercise of their talents. But there 
is in the English language a song, worthy of the theme, worthy of 



THOMSON. 215 

the nation, and imperishably glorious to the poet: — in subject, 
sentiment, and style, it ranks among the highest lyrics of any 
age ; — in influence it triumphs over them all. That song is 
" Rule Britannia." When Thomson composed this prophetic 
strain, Britannia did not rule the waves ; her empire was disputed 
by the Dutch, the Danes, the Portuguese, the French, and the 
Spaniards ; since then she has mastered them all ; — how far the 
inspiration of this very song may have contributed towards hasten- 
ing its own accomplishment, may be a difficult question to deter- 
mine, but that it has done much, cannot be doubted by those who 
know what power there is in popular verse, not only to move the 
passions, but to direct the actions, and form the character, of a 
brave, a free, and a loyal people ; and it may be confidently pre- 
dicted, that while the national chorus of — 

" Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves," 

Shall be heard in our assemblies, our dominion on the deep will 
be invincibly maintained, and our freedom at home secured 
against any oppressor. J. Montgomery. 



When Britain first, at heaven's command, 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter, the charter of the land, 
And guardian angels sung the strain : 
Rule, Britannia, 
Britannia rule the waves, 
Britons never shall be slaves. 

The nations, not so bless' d as thee, 
Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 

While thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all. 
Rule, Britannia, &c. 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the loud blast that rends the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 
Rule, Britannia, &c. 



216 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, — 

Eut work their woe and thy renown. 
Rule, Britannia, &c. 

To thee belongs the rural reign, 
Thy cities shall with commerce shine, 

All thine shall be the subject main, 
And every shore encircles thine. 
Rule, Britannia, &c. 

The Muses still with freedom found, 
Shall to thy happy coasts repair, 

Bless'd Isle ! with matchless beauty crown'd, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
Rule, Britannia, &c. 



COLLINS. 217 



WILLIAM COLLINS, DIED 1756, AGED 28. 



COLLINS'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

Collins had that true vivida vis, that genuine inspiration, which 
alone can give birth to the highest efforts of poetry. He leaves 
stings in the minds of his readers, certain traces of thought and 
feelings which never wear out, because nature had left them in his 
own mind. He is the only one of the minor poets of whom, if he 
had lived, it cannot be said that he might not have done the 
greatest things. The germ is there. He is sometimes affected, 
unmeaning, and obscure ; but he also catches rich glimpses of the 
bowers of Paradise, and has lofty aspirations after the highest seats 
of the Muses. With a great deal of tinsel and splendid patch- 
work, he has not been able to hide the solid sterling ore of genius. 
In his best works there is an attic simplicity, a pathos, and fervour 
of imagination, which make us the more lament that the efforts of 
his mind were at first depressed by neglect and pecuniary embar- 
rassment, and at length buried in the gloom of an unconquerable 
and fatal malady. How many poets have gone through all the 
horrors of poverty and contempt, and ended their days in moping 
melancholy or moody madness ! 

" We poets in our youth begin in gladness, 

But thereof comes in th' end despondency and madness." 

Is this the fault of themselves, of nature in tempering them of too 
fine a clay, or of the world, that spurner of living, and patron of 
dead merit? Read the account of Collins — with hopes frustrated, 
with faculties blighted, at last, when it was too late for himself 
X 



218 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

or others, receiving the deceitful favours of relenting Fortune, 
which served only to throw their sunshine on his decay, and to 
light him to an early grave. He was found sitting with every 
spark of imagination extinguished, and with only the faint traces 
of memory and reason left — with only one book in his room, the 
Bible ; " but that," he said, " was the best." A melancholy damp 
hung like an unwholesome mildew upon his faculties — a canker 
had consumed the flower of his life. He produced works of genius, 
and the public regarded them with scorn : he aimed at excellence 
that should be his own, and his friends treated his efforts as the 
wanderings of fatuity. The proofs of his capacity are, his Ode on 
Evening, his Ode on the Passions, his Ode to Fear, the Dirge in 
Cymbeline, the Lines on Thomson's Grave, and his Eclogues, 
parts of which are admirable. But perhaps his Ode on the Poet- 
ical Character is the best of all. A rich distilled perfume emanates 
from it like the breath of genius; a goldeu cloud envelopes it; a 
honeyed paste of poetic diction encrusts it, like the cmdied coat of 
the auricula. His Ode to Evening shews equal genius in the 
images and versification. The sounds steal slowly over the ear, 
like the gradual coming on of evening itself. hazlitt. 



ODE TO EVENING. 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear, 

Like thy own solemn springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales, 
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright hair'd sun 
Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed : 
Now air is hush'd, save were the weak-eyed bat, 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn, 
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum, 



COLLINS. 219 

Now teach me, maid compos'd, 
To breathe some softened strain, 
Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'niug vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial lov'd return ! 
For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and Elves 

Who slept in flow'rs the day, 
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brow, with sedge, 
And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still, 

The pensive Pleasures sweet 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 
Then lead, calm Vot'ress, where some sheety lake 
Cheers the lone heath, or some time hallowed pile, 

Or upland fallows gray 

Reflect its last cool gleam. 
But when chiil blust'ring winds, or driving rain, 
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut, 

That from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds, and swelling floods, 
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 
While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 

While summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light : 
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves : 
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air, 

Affright thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes ; 
So long, sure-found beneath the Sylvan shed, 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose- lip'd Health. 

Thy gentlest influence own, 

And hymn thy fav'rite name ! 



ODE TO FEAR. 

Thou, to whom the world unknown 

With all its shadowy shapes is shown, 
Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene, 
While Fancy lifts the veil between : 

Ah Fear ! ah frantic Fear ! 

1 see, I see thee near. 

x2 



220 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye I 
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly, 
For lo, what monsters in thy train appear ! 
Danger, whose limbs of giaut mould 
What mortal eye can fix'd behold ? 
Who stalks his round, an hideous form, 
Howling amidst the midnight storm, 
Or throws him on the ridgy steep 
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep : 
And with him thousand phantoms join'd, 
Who prompt t ) deeds accurs'd the mind : 
And those, the fiends, who near allied, 
O'er Nature's wounds, and wrecks preside ; 
While Vengeance, in the lurid air, 
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare : 
On whom that ravening brood of fate, 
Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait : 
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, 
And look not madly wild, like thee ? 

Thou who such weary lengths hast past, 
Where wilt thou rest, mad Nymph, at last ? 
Say, wilt thou shroud in haunted cell, 
Where gloomy Rape and Murder dwell ? 
Or in some hollow'd seat, 
'Gainst which the big waves beat, 
Hear drowning seamen's cries in tempests brought ! 
Dark power, with shuddering meek submitted thought I 
Be mine, to read the visions old, 
Which thy awakening bards have told, 
And, lest thou meet my blasted view, 
Hold each strange tale devoutly true ; 
Ne'er be I found, by thee o'er aw'd, 
In that thrice hallow'd eve abroa'd, 
When ghosts, as cottage maids believe, 
Their pebbled beds permitted leave, 
And goblins haunt from fire, or fen, 
Or mine, or flood, the walks of men ! 

O thou whose spirit most possest 
The sacred seat of Shakespear's breast f 
By all that from thy prophet broke, 
In thy divine emotions spoke ! 
Hither again thy fury deal, 
Teach me but once like him to feel : 
His cypress wreath my meed decree, 
And I, O Fear ! will dwell with thee. 



COLLINS. 221 



ODE ON THE PASSIONS. 

In this ode we have the whole soul and power of poetry. — Though 
the measure is the same in which the musical efforts of Fear, An- 
ger, and Despair are described, yet by the variation of the cadence, 
the character and operation of each is strongly expressed. The 
picture of Hope is beautiful, almost beyond imitation. The de- 
scriptions of Joy, Jealousy, and Revenge are excellent; though 
not equally so. Those of Melancholy and Cheerfulness are su- 
perior to every thing of the kind : and upon tbe whole there may 
be very little hazard in asserting, that this is tbe finest ode in the 
English language. dr. langhorne. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell, 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting,- 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refiued. 
'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatch'd her instruments of sound, 
Aud, as they oft had heard apart 
Sweet lessous of her forceful art, 
Each, for Madness ruled the hour, 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear, his hand its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, 
And back recoil'd he knew not why, 

Even at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 
In lightnings own'd his secret stings, 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woful measures wan Despair — 
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, 

V sullen, strange, and mingled air, 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

x3 



222 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ? 

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong, 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She call'd on Echo still, through all the song ; 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close. 
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. 

And longer had she sung, — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatient rose, 
He threw his blood stain' d sword in thunder down, 
And, with a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo. 
And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity at his side, 
Her soul subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, 

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as oue inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sat retired, 
And from her wild sequester'd seat, 
In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : 
And dashing soft from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, 
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, 
Round an holy calm diffusing, 
Love of peace and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But O ! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulders flung, 
Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, 



COLLINS. 223 

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known ; 
The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 
Satyrs and Sylvan hoys were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, 
And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial ; 

He with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. 
They would have thought who heard the strain, 
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, 
Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound : 
And he, amidst his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 

O Music, sphere -descended maid, 
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, 
Why, goddess, why to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As in that loved Atheuian bower, 
You learn'd an all commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O nymph, endear'd ! 
Can well recall what then it heard. 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time, 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
Thy wonders, in that god-like age, 
Fill thy recording Sister's page — 
'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
Than all which charms this laggard age, 
E'en all at once together found 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
O bid our vain endeavours cease 
Revive the just designs of Greece ; 
Return in all thy simple state ! 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 



224 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

ODE ON THE POETICAL CHARACTER. 

This ode is so infinitely abstracted, and replete with high enthu- 
siasm, that it will find few readers capable of entering into the 
spirit of it, or of relishing its beauties. There is a style of sen- 
timent as utterly unintelligible to common capacities, as if the 
subject were treated in an unknown language; and it is on the 
same account that abstracted poetry will never have many ad- 
mirers. The authors of such poems must be content with the 
approbation of those heaven- favoured geniuses who, by a simi- 
larity of taste and sentiment, are enabled to penetrate the high 
mysteries of inspired fancy, and to pursue the loftiest flights of 
enthusiastic imagination. Nevertheless the praise of the distin- 
guished few is certainly preferable to the applause of the undis. 
cerning million ; for all praise is valuable in proportion to the 
judgment of those who confer it. 

As the subject of this ode is uncommon, so are the style and 
expression highly metaphorical and abstracted ; thus the sun is 
called " the rich-haired youth of Morn ;" the ideas are termed 
" the shadowy tribes of mind," &c. We are struck with the 
propriety of this mode of expression here, and it affords us new 
proofs of the analogy that subsists between language and sen- 
timent. 

Nothing can be more loftily imagined than the creation of the 
cestns of Fancy in this ode ; the allegorical imagery is rich and 
sublime; and the observation that the dangerous passions kept 
aloof during the operation, is founded on the strictest philosophi- 
cal truth : for poetical fancy can exist only in minds that are per- 
fectly serene, and in some measure abstracted from the influences 
of sense. 

The scene of Milton's " inspiring hour" is perfectly in character, 
and described with all those wild-wood appearances of which the 
great poet was so enthusiastically fond. anon. 



COLLINS. 225 

As once, if not with light regard, 
I read aright that gifted bard, 
— Him whose school above the rest 
His loveliest elfin queen has blest; — 
One, only one, unrivall'd* fair, 
Might hope the magic girdle wear, 
At solemn turney hung on high, 
The wish of each love-darting eye. 

Lo ! to each other nymph in turn applied, 

As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand, 
Some chaste and angel-rriend to virgin fame, 

With whisper'd spell had burst the starting band, 
It left unblest her loath'd dishonour'd side; 
Happier, hopeless fair, if never 
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour 
Had touch'd that fatal zone to her denied ! 

Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, 

To whom, prepar'd and bath'd in heaven, 

The cest of amplest power is given : 

To few the god- like gift assigns, 

To gird their blest prophetic loins, 
And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmix'd her flame ! 

The band, as fairy legends say 

Was wove on that creating day 

When He, who call'd with thought to birth 

Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, 

And drest with springs and forests tall, 

And pour'd the main engirtiug all, 

Long by the lov'd enthuisiast woo'd, 

Himself in some diviner mood, 

Retiring, sat with her alone, 

And plac'd her on his sapphire throne ; 

The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, 

Seraphic wires were heard to sound, 

Now sublimest triumph swelling, 

Now on b>ve and mercy dwelling ; 

And she, from out the veiling cloud, 

Breath'd her magic notes aloud : 

And thou, thou rich-hair'd youth of morn, 

And all thy subject life was bom ! 

The dangerous passions kept aloof, 

Far from the sainted growing woof : 

But near it sat ecstatic Wonder, 

Listening the deep applauding thunder; 

* Florirael. — See Spenser. 



226 THE TOETICAL REVIEW. 

And Truth, in sunny vest array'd, 

By whose the Tarsel's eyes were made ; 

All the shadowy tribes of Mind, 

In braided dance their murmurs joiu'd, 

And all the bright uncounted Powers 

Who feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers. 

Where the bard whose soul can now 

Its high presuming hopes avow ? 

Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, 

This hallowed work for him design'd ? 

High on some cliff, to heaven up-pil'd, 
Of rude access, of prospect wild, 
Where, tangled round the jealous steep, 
Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep, 
And holy Genii guard the rock, 
Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, 
While on its rich ambitious head, 
An Eden, like his own, lies spread. 

I view that oak, the fancied glades among, 
By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, 

From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew, 

Night spher'd in heaven, its native strains could bear 

On which that ancient trump he reach'd was hung : 
Thither oft, his glory greeting, 
From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, 

With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, 

My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ; 
In vain— Such bliss to one alone, 
Of all the sous of soul was known, 
And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers, 
Have now o'erturu'd th' inspiring bowers, 

Or curtain'd close such scene from ev'ry future view. 



YOUNG. 227 



EDWARD YOUNG, DIED 1765, AGED 84 



REMARKS ON THE NIGHT THOUGHTS. 

The Night Thoughts certainly contain many splendid and happy 
conceptions, but their beauty is thickly marred by false wit and 
overlaboured antithesis : indeed his whole ideas seem to have 
been in a state of antithesis while he composed the poem. One 
portion of his fancy appears devoted to aggravate the picture of 
his desolate feelings, and the other half to contradict that picture 
by eccentric images and epigrammatic ingenuities. As a poet he 
was fond of exaggeration, but it was that of the fancy more than 
of the heart. This appears no less in the noisy hyperboles of his 
tragedies, than in the studied melancholy of the Night Thoughts, 
i which he pronounces the simple act of laughter to be half im- 
moral. That he was a pious man, and had felt something from 

i the afflictions described in the Complaint, need not be called in 
question, but he seems covenanting with himself to be as desolate 
as possible, as if he had continued the custom ascribed to him at 
college, of studying with a candle stuck in a human skull ; while, 
at the same time, the feelings and habits of a man of the world, 
which still adhere to him, throw a singular contrast over his re- 
nunciation of human vanity. He abjures the world in witty 
metaphors, commences his poem with a sarcasm on sleep, deplores 
his being neglected at court, and compliments a lady of quality by 

{ asking the moon if she would choose to be called the "fair Port- 

! land of the skies." He was, in truth, not so sick of life as of 
missing its preferments, and was still ambitious not only of cou- 

! verting Lorenzo, but of shining before this utterly worthless and 



228 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

wretched world as a sparkling, sublime, and witty poet. Hence 
his poetry has not the majestic simplicity of a heart abstracted 
from human vanities, and while the groundwork of his sentiments 
is more darkly shaded than is absolutely necessary either for poetry 
or religion, the surface of his expression glitters with irony and 
satire, and with thoughts sometimes absolutely approaching to 
pleasantry. 

The above remarks have been made with no desire to depre- 
ciate what is genuine in his beauties. The reader most sensitive to 
his faults must have felt, that there is in him a spark of origi- 
nality which is never long extinguished, however far it may be 
from vivifying the entire mass of his poetry. Many and exquisite 
are his touches of sublime expression, of profound reflection, and 
of striking imagery. It is recalling but a tew of these to allude to 
his description, in the eighth book, of the man whose thoughts are 
not of this world, to his simile of the traveller at the opening of 
the ninth book, to his spectre of the antedeluvian world, and to 
some parts of his very unequal description of the conflagration ; 
above all to that noble and familiar image, 

" When final Ruin fiercely drives 
Her ploughshare o'er Creation." 

It is true that he seldom if ever maintains a flight of poetry long 
free from oblique associations, but he has individual passages 
which Philosophy might make her texts, and Experience select for 
lier mottos. t. Campbell. 



PICTURE OF A GOOD MAN. 

Some angel guide my pencil, while I draw, 
What nothing less than angel can excped, 
A man on earth devoted to the skies ; 
Like ships in seas, while in, above the world. 



YOUNG. 229 

With aspect mild, and elevated eye, 
Behold him seated on a mount serene, 
Above the fogs of Sense, and Passion's storm ; 
All the black cares and tumults of this life, 
Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, 
Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 
Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave;, 
A mingled mob ! a wandering herd ! he sees, 
Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike ! 
His full reverse in all ! what higher praise ? 
What stronger demonstration of the right ? 

The present all their care, the future his. 
When public welfare calls, or private want, 
They give to Fame ; his bounty he conceals. 
Their virtues varnish Nature, his exalt. 
Mankind's esteem they court, and he his own. 
Theirs the wild chase of false felicities ; 
His, the composed possession of the true. 
Alike throughout is his consistent peace, 
All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
While party-colour'd shreds of happiness, 
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
A madman's robe; each puff of Fortune blows 
The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 

He sees with other eyes than their's : where they 
Behold a sun, he spies a Deity. 
What makes them only smile, makes him adore. 
Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees. 
An empire, in his balance, weighs a grain. 
They things terrestrial worship as divine ; 
His hopes, immortal, blow them by as dust 
That dims his sight, and shortens his survey, 
Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. 
Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) 
He lays aside to find his dignity ; 
No dignity they find in aught besides. 
They triumph in externals, (which conceal 
Man's real glory) proud of an eclipse : 
Himself too much he prizes to be proud. 
And nothing thinks so great in man, as man. 
Too dear he holds his interest to neglect 
Another's welfare, 01 his right invade : 
Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey. 
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; 
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on Heaven, 
Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe : 
Nought but what wounds his virtue wounds his peace. 



230 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

A cover'd heart their character defends ; 
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. 
With nakedness his innocence agrees, 
While their broad foliage testifies their fall. 
Their no joys end where his full feast begins, 
His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. 
To triumph in existence his alone ; 
And his alone, triumphantly to think 
His true existence is not yet begun. 



REFLECTIONS ON THE STARRY HEAVENS. 

Lorenzo ! come, and warm thee : thou, whose heart, 
Whose little heart, is moor'd within a nook 
Of this obscure terrestrial, anchor weigh ; 
Another ocean calls, a nobler port : 
I am thy pilot, I thy prosperous gale : 
Gainful thy voyage through yon azure main, 
Main without tempest, pirate, rock or shore, 
And whence thou mayst import eternal wealth, 
And leave to beggar'd minds the pearl and gold. 

Above our atmosphere's intestine wars, 
Rain's fountain-head, the magazine of hail ; 
Above the northern nests of feather'd snows," 
The brew of thunders, and the flaming forge 
That forms the crooked lightning : 'bove the caves 
Where infant tempests wait their growing wings, 
And tune their tender voices to that roar, 
Which soon, perhaps, shall shake a guilty world ; 
Above misconstrued omens of the sky, 
Far travell'd comets' calculated blaze, 
Elance thy thought, and think of more than man : 
Thy soul, till now contracted, whither'd, shrunk, 
Blighted by blasts of Earth's unwholesome air, 
Will blossom here ; spread all her faculties 
To these bright ardours; every power unfold, 
And rise into sublimities of thought. 

This prospect vast, what is it ? — Weigh'd aright 
'Tis nature's system of divinity, 
And every student of the night inspires. . 
'Tis elder Scripture, writ by God's own hand ; 
Scripture authentic ! uncorrupt by man. 
Lorenzo ! with my radius (the rich gift 






YOUNG. 231 

Of thought nocturnal) I'll point out to thee 
Its various lessons ; some that may surprise 
An uuadept in mysteries of Night ; 
Little, perhaps, expected in her school, 
Nor thought to grow on planet or on star ; 
Bulls, lions, scorpions, monsters here we feigu, 
Ourselves more monstrous, not to see what here 
Exists, indeed, — a lecture to mankind ! 

What read we here ? — the' existence of a God ? 
Yes : and of other beings, man above ; 
Natives of ether ! sons of higher climes ! 
And, what may move Lorenzo's wonder more, 
Eternity is written in the skies, 
And whose eternity ? — Lorenzo ! thine ; 
Mankind's eternity. Nor faith alone, 
Virtue grows here ; here springs the sovereigu cure 
Of almost every vice, but chiefly thine, 
Wrath, pride, ambition, and impuie desire. 

Why from yon arch, that infinite of space, 
With infinite of lucid orbs replete, 
Which set the living firmament on fire, 
At the first glance, in such an overwhelm 
Of wonderful on man's astonish'd sight 
Rushes Omnipotence? — To curb our pride, 
Our reason rouse, and lead it to that Power 
Whose love lets down these silver chains of light ; 
To draw up man's ambition to himself, 
And bind our chaste affections to his throne. 
Thus the three virtues, least alive on earth, 
And welcomed on heaven's coast with most applause 
An humble, pure, and heavenly minded heart, 
Are here inspired ; and canst thou gaze too long ? 

Nor stands thy wrath deprived of its reproof, 
Or unupbraided by this radiant choir. 
The planets of each system represent 
Kind neighbours; mutual amity prevails; 
Sweet interchange of rays, received, return'd, 
Enlightening and enlighten'd ! all, at once, 
Attracting and attracted ! patriot-like, 
None sins against the welfare of the whole ; 
But their reciprocal, unselfish aid, 
Affords an emblem of millenial love. 
Nothing in nature, much less conscious being, 
Was e'er created solely for itself. 
Thus man his sovereign duty learns in this 
Material picture of benevolence. 

Y 2 



232 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

And yet Lorenzo calls for miracles, 
To give his tottering faith a solid hase. 
Why call for less than is already thine ? 
Thou art no novice in theology ; 
What is a miracle ? — 'Tis a reproach, 
'Tis an implicit satire on mankind, 
And while it satisfies, it censures too. 
To common sense great Nature's course proclaims 
A Deity : When mankind falls asleep. 
A miracle is sent as an alarm 
To wake the world, and prove him o'er again, 
By recent argument, but not more strong. 
Say which imports more plenitude of power, 
Or Nature's laws to fix, or to repeal ? 
To make a Sun, or stop his mad career ? 
To countermand his orders, and send back 
The flaming courier to the frighted East, 
Warm'd and astonish'd at his evening ray ; 
Or bid the Moon, as with her journey tired, 
In Ajalon's soft flowery vale repose ? 
Great things are these ? still greater to create. 
From Adam's bower look down through the whole train 
Of miracles; — resistless is their power ? 
They do not, cannot, more amaze the mind, 
Than this,, call'd unmiraculous survey, 
If duly weigh'd, if rationally seen, 
If seen with human eyes. The brute, indeed, 
Sees nought but spangles here ; the fool, no more. 
Say'st thou, 'The course of Nature governs all?' 
The course of Nature is the Art of God. 
The miracles, thou call'st for, this attest ; 
For say, could Nature Nature's course control ? 

But, miracles apart, who sees him not 
Nature's Controller, Author, Guide, and End ? 
Who turns his eye on Nature's midnight face, 
But must inquire — " What hand behind the scene, 
What arm Almighty, put these wheeling globes 
In motion, and wound up the vast machine ? 
Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs ? 
Who bowl'd them flaming through the dark profound, 
Numerous as glittering gems of morning dew, 
Or sparks from populous cities in a blaze, 
And set the bosom of old Night on fire, 
Peopled her desert, and made Horror smile ?" 
Or if the military style delights thee, 
(For stars have fought their battles, leagued with man) 
" Who marshals this bright host ? enrols their names, 
Appoints their post, their marches, and returns, 
Punctual, at stated periods ? who disbands 
These veteran troops, their final duty done^ 



YOUNG. "23S 

IF e'er disbanded ?'' — He, whose potent, word, 
Like the loud trumpet, levied first their powers 
In Night's inglorious empirq, where they slept 
In beds of darkness ; arm'd them with fierce flames ; 
Arrang'd, and disciplin'd, and cloth' d in gold, 
And call'd them out of Chaos to the field, 
Where now they war with Vice and Unbelief. 
O let us join this army ! joining these 
Will give us hearts intrepid, at that hour 
When brighter flames shall cut a darker night ; 
When these strong demonstrations of a God 
Shall hide their heads, or tumble from their spheres, 
And one eternal curtain cover all ! 



THE CONFLAGRATION. 

Lorenzo! far the rest above, 

Of ghastly nature, and enormous size, 

One form assaults my sight, and chills my blood, 

And shakes my frame. Of one departed world 

I see the mighty shadow : oozy wreath 

And dismal sea-weed crown her : o'er her urn 

Reclined, she weeps her desolated realms, 

And bloated sons; and, weeping, prophesies 

Another's dissolution, soon, in flames : 

But, like Cassandra, prophesies in vain : 

In vain to many ; not, I trust, to thee. 

For, kuow'st thou not, or art thou loath to know, 
The great decree, the council of the skies ? 
Deluge and Conflagration, dreadful powers ! 
Prime ministers of vengeance ! chain'd in caves 
Distinct, apart, the giant furies roar ; 
Apart, or such their horrid rage for ruin, 
In mutual conflict would they rise, and wage 
Eternal war, till one was quite devour'd. 
But not for this ordain'd their boundless rage. 
When Heaven's inferior instruments of wrath, 
War, famine, pestilence, are found too weak 
To scourge a world for her enormous crimes, 
These are let loose alternate : down they rush, 
Swift and tempestuous, from the' eternal throne, 
With irresistible commission arm'd, 
The world, in vain corrected, to destroy ; 
And ease Cieation of the shocking scene. 

Seest thou, Lorenzo! what depends on man ? 
y3 



234 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



The fate of Nature, as for man her birth. 
Earth's actors change Earth's transitory scenes> 
And make Creation groan with human guilt. 
How must it groan, in a new deluge whelm'd, 
But not of waters ! At the destined hour, 
By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, 
See all the formidable sons of fire, 
Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play 
Their various engines : all at once disgorge 
Their blazing magazines ; and take, by storm, 
This poor terrestrial citadel of man. 

Amazing period ! when each mountain height 
Outburus Vesuvius ; rocks eternal pour 
Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd ; 
Stars rush, and final Ruin fiercely drives 
Her ploughshare o'er Creation ! — while aloft, 
More than astonishment ! if more can be ! 
Far other firmament than e'er was seen, 
Than e'er was thought by man ! far other stars ! 
Stars animate, that govern these of fire; 
Far other sun! — a Sun, O how unlike 
The Babe at Bethlehem ! how unlike the Man 
That groan'd on Calvary ! — yet He it is ; 
That Man of sorrows ! O how changed ! what pomp ' 
In grandeur terrible all Heaven descends ! 
And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train, 
A swift archangel, with his golden wing, 
As blots and clouds that darken and disgrace 
The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns aside. 
And now, all dross removed, Heaven's own pure day, 
Full on the confines of our ether flames, 
While (dreadful contrast !) far, how far beneath ! 
Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas 
And storms sulphureous ; her voracious jaws 
Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey. 
Lorenzo ! welcome to this scene ; the last 
In Nature's course, the first in Wisdom's thought. 
This strikes, if aught can strike thee ; this awakes 
The most supine ; this snatches man from death. 

At midnight, when mankind is wrapp'd in peace., 
And worldly Fancy feeds on golden dreams,. 
To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour ; 
At midnight, 'tis presumed, this pomp will burst 
From tenfold darknes, sudden as the spark 
From smitten steel ; from nitrous grain the blaze. 
Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more ! 
The day is broke, which never more shall close ! 
Above, around, beneath, amazement all ! 
Terror and glory join'd in their extremes ! 
Our God in grandeur, and our world ou fire 1 



SMART. 235 



CHRISTOPHER SMART, DIED 1770, AGED 48. 



DAVID. 

Nothing from the hand of Smart can be compared to the following 
stanzas, said to have been indented by him, with the end of a key, 
on the wainscot of a room, in which he was confined as a maniac, 
and debarred the use of pen, ink, and paper. There is an affecting 
incoherency in the thought and images, which glauce like spectres 
through the author's mind, as a disordered medium ; but the fre- 
quent felicity of phrase and general splendour of conception, must 
strike every reader of taste as evidence of that " fine madness," 
which is said to reign in the intellect of every true poet. The last 
stanza alone might give immortality to any name : it is a most 
perfect specimen of the sublime. The poem, of which this is an 
interlude, describes the royal Psalmist and the themes which he 
was wont to sing to the Harp of Zion. J. Montgomery. 

Sublime, — invention ever-young, 
Of vast conception, towering tongue, 

To God the' eternal theme ; 
Notes from your exaltations caught, 
Unrivall'd royalty of thought, 

O'er meaner thoughts supreme. 

His muse, bright angel of his verse, 
Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, 

For all the pangs that rage : 
Blest light still gaining on the gloom, 
■> The more than Michal of his bloom, 
The' Abishag of his age. 



236 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

He sang of God, the mighty source 
Of all things, — that stupendous force, 

On which all strength depends ; 
From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, 
All period, power, and enterprize 

Commences, reigns, and ends. 

The world, the clustering spheres He made, 
The glorious light, the soothing shade, 

Dale, champaign, grove and hill; 
The multitudinous abyss, 
Where secresy remains in bliss ; , 

And wisdom hides her skill. 

" Tell them, I AM," Jehovah said 
To Moses, while earth heard in dread ; 

And, smitten to the heart, 
At once, above, beneath, around, 
All Nature, without voice or sound, 

Replied, " O Lord, thou art.*' 



GRAY. 237 



THOMAS GRAY, DIED 1771, AGED 55. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH 
YARD* 

No performance of the elegiac kind can compare with this Elegy 
either in splendour or in dignity. Not a line flows negligently ; 
not an epithet is applied at random. Sensible objects are repre- 
sented with every picturesque accompaniment, and sentiments are 
impressed with all the force of glowing and pointed diction. The 
general strain of thinking is such as meets the assent of every feel- 
ing and cultivated mind. It consists of those reflections upon 
human life which inspire a soothing melancholy, and peculiarly 
accord with that serious and elevated mood in which true poetry is 
most relished. There are, however, some obscure passages; and 
i the connexion of the thoughts is not always manifest.f It may 

■"The Church-yard of Stoke Pogis, Buckinghamshire. It adjoios Stoke 
Park. The church is a plain rustic edifice, of some antiquity, with a low 
tower, and conical-shaped spire; but has few of those strongly marked fea- 
tures by which it is so admirably characterized in the poem, and the "rug- 

; ged elms," aud " yew tree shade," if ever they existed, are now no more. — 
Some of the surrounding scenerv, however, finely corresponds, particularly 
to the south park, where the eye is directed over a large sheet of water to 
the majestic Castle of Windsor, beyond which Cooper's Hill and the forest 
woods close the prospect.— The Unique. 

+ Gray is nowhere so obscure as not to be intelligible by recurring to the 
passage. And it may be further observed, that his lyrical obscurity never 

] arises, as in some writers, from undefined ideas or paradoxical sentiments. 

I On the contrary, his moral spirit is as explicit as it is majestic ; and deeply 
read as he was in Plato, he is never metaphysically perplexed.— His lyrical 
pieces are like paintings on glass, which must be placed in a strong light to 
give out the perfect radiance of their colouring.— T. Campbell.— [ Ed.~\ 



238 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

also be questioned whether a good effect is produced by calling off 
the attention from the real fortunes and characters of the inhabi- 
tants of a village, to tho^e of the imaginary poet with whose epi- 
taph the piece concludes. — Notwithstanding these defects, however, 
this poem has merited that extraordinary popularity which has 
been testified by innumerable imitations, parodies, and transla- 
tions into ancient and modern languages. Its success affords a 
remarkable proof of the power of poetry, which, by the charm of 
melodious verse and splendid diction, could raise so much admira- 
tion and interest from so slender a fund. dr. aikin. 



The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

The swallow twitt'riug from the straw built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocuud did they drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 






GRAY. 23y 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the' inevitable hour. 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire : 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penury repress' d their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood, 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scattei plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbad : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 



240 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse. 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 
' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
To meet the sun upon the uplaud lawn. 

' There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 



GRAY. 241 

* One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

4 The next with dirges due in sad array 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown : 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heav'n did a recompence as largely send : 

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, 

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



242 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH, DIED 1774, AGED 45. 



GOLDSMITH'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

Goldsmith's poetry enjoys a calm and steady popularity. It in- 
spires us, indeed, with no admiration of daring design, or of fertile 
invention ; but it presents, within its narrow limits, a distinct and 
unbroken view of poetical delightfulness. His descriptions and 
sentiments have the pure zest of nature. He is refined with- 
out false delicacy, and correct without insipidity. Perhaps 
there' is an intellectual composure in his manner, which 
may, in some passages, be said to approach to the reserved 
and prosaic; but he unbends from this graver strain of reflection, 
to tenderness, and even to playfulness, with an ease and grace 
almost exclusively his own ; and conntcts extensive views of the 
happiness and interests of society, with pictures of life, that touch 
the life by their familiarity. His language is certainly simple,' 
though it is not cast in a rugged or careless mould. He is no dis- 
ciple of the gaunt and famished school of simplicity. Deliberately 
as he wrote, he cannot be accused of wanting natural and idiomatic 
expression ; but still it is select and refined expression. He uses the 
ornaments which must always distinguish true poetry from prose ; 
and when he adopts colloquial plainness, it is with the utmost 
care and skill, to avoid a vulgar humility. The tendency towards 
abstracted observation in his poetry agrees peculiarly with the 
compendious form of expression ivhich he studied ; whilst the 
homefelt joys, on which his fancy loved to repose, required at once 
the chastest and sweetest colours of language, to make them har- 
monize with the dignity of a philosophical poem. His whole 
manner has a still depth of feeling and reflection, which gives 
back the image of nature unruffled and minutely. He has no re- 
dundant thoughts, or false transports ; but seems, on every occa- 
sion, to have weighed the impulse to which he surrendered himself. 



GOLDSMITH. 243 

"Whatever ardour or casual felicities he may have thus sacrificed, 
he gained a high degree of purity and self-possession. His chaste 
pathos makes him an insinuating moralist, and throws a charm of 
Claude-like softness over his descriptions of homely objects that 
would seem only fit to he the subjects of Dutch painting. But his 
quiet enthusiasm leads the affections to humble things without a 
vulgar association ; and he inspires us with a fondness to trace the 
simplest recollections of Auburn, till we count the furniture of its 
ale-house, and Hsten to 

u The varoish'd clock that click'd behind the door." 

T. CAMPBELL. 



THE VILLAGE CURATE. 

Vear yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year : 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor 'ere had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain : 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast : 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd : 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds; or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. 
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave e'er charity began. 

z 2 



244 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place . 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain' d to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given ; 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven ; 
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 






THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Beside yon straggling fence, that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill' d to rule, 
The village master taught his little school : 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well and every truant knew : 
Well had the boding tremblers 1 earn' d to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face . 
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes ; for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd : 
Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault : 
The village all declar'd how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain hs could write and cipher too: 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage i 
And e'en the story ran, that he could gauge. 






GOLDSMITH. 245 

In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill ; 
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; 
While words of learned strength, and thundering sound, 
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around ; 
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot, 
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. 



THE VILLAGE ALEHOUSE. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
Where grey- beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendors of that festive place ; 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor ; 
The varnish'd clock that click' d behind the door; 
The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures, plac'd for ornament and use ; 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken teacup?, wisely kept for show, 
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'din a row. 

Vain transitory splendor ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer'^ news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad, shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and leau to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mautling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 



z 3 



246 



THE POETICAL REVIEW, 



ROBERT BURNS, DIED 1796, AGED 37. 



He pass'd thro' life's tempestuous night, 

A brilliant, trembling, northern light ; 

Thro' years to come he'll shine from far, 

A fix'd, unsettling, polar star. J. MONTGOMERY. 



ON BURNS S POETRY. 






There are few things more worthy of being studied, either in 
their character or in their effects, than the poems of Robert 
Burns. This man, born and bred a peasant, was taught, like all 
other Scotsmen, to read his Bible, and learned by heart, in his 
infancy, the heroic ballads of his nation. Amidst the solitary 
occupations of his rural labours, the soul of the ploughman fed 
itself with high thoughts of patriotism and religion, and with that 
happy instinct which is the best prerogative of genius, he divined 
every thing that was necessary for being the poet ot his country. 
The men of his nation, high and low, are educated men ; medi- 
tative in their spirit, proud in their recollections, steady in their 
patriotism, and devout in their faith. At the time, however, 
when he appeared, the completion of their political union with a 
greater and wealthier kingdom, and the splendid success which 
had crowned their efforts in adding to the general literature of 
Britain — but above all, the chilling nature of the merely specu- 
lative philosophy, which they had begun to cultivate, seemed to 
threaten a speedy diminution of their fervent attachment to that 
which was peculiarly their own. This mischievous tendency was- 
stopped by a peasant, and the noblest of his land are the debtor?: 



BURNS. 247 

of his genius. He revived the spark that was about to be extin- 
guished — and taught men to reverence with increasing homage, 
that enthusiasm of which they were beginning to he ashamed. 
The levity of many of his descriptions, the coarseness of many of 
his images, cannot conceal from our eyes the sincerity with which, 
at the bottom of his heart, this man was the worshipper of the 
pure genius of his country. The improprieties are superficial, the 
excellence is ever deep. The man might be guilty in his own 
person of pernicious trespasses, but his soul came back, like a 
dove, to repose amidst images of purity. The chaste and lowly 
affection of the village maiden was the only love that appeared 
worthy in his eyes, as he wandered beneath the virgin radiance of 
the harvest moon. In the haunts of the dissolute, the atmos- 
phere of corruption might seize upon him, and taint his breath 
with the coldness of its derision ; but he returned to right thoughts 
in the contemplation of the good, and felt in all its fulness, when 
he bent Lis knee by the side of " the Father and the Priest," the 
gentle majesty of that religion which consoles the afflicted and 
elevates the poor. — He is at present, the favourite poet of a vir- 
tuous, a pious, and patriotic people; and the first symptom of 
their decay in virtue, piety, and patriotism, will be seen on the 
instant when Scotsmen shall cease to treasure in their hearts the 
" Highland Mary," the " Cotter's Saturday Night," and the 
" Song of Bannockburn." baron von lauerwinkel.* 



ON THE CHARACTER OF BURNS. 

If the vices of Burns were drawn in deepest shadows, his virtues 
were drawn in brightest sunbeams ; and over the gloom, and over 
the glory, there was the light of genius. Therefore his country is 
neither afraid nor ashamed to see his character reflected with all 
its stains and all its purity in his works ; but she looks with par- 
don, pity, and pride, — and her heart and her eyes fill as she gazes 

* See Blackwood's Magazine, Oct. 1818. 



248 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

on his pale marble bust. She will suffer no one to preach and 
moralize over his errors, except from his lips she hears— 

" The still sad music of humanity, 

Not harsh, nor grating, but of amplest power 

To soften and subdue." 

His faults aud frailties, errors and vices, were all far more than 
redeemed, had they been many times greater than they were, by 
his generous and noble virtues ; and it is felt now over all Scot- 
land, and in every land trodden by the feet of her sons, that the 
bad belonging to the character of a great man, may without dan- 
ger be buried in his grave, from whence it will never cease to send 
up admonitory whispers ; and that it is true wisdom and true reli- 
gion to elevate the good into the light, and hold it for ever there, 
as an encouragement and an example. 

Blackwood's Magazine, March, 1828. 



*TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped fiow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush atnang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckled breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

* See -the Glossary at the end of the Volume. 



BURNS. 249 

The Haunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns thehistie stibble field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
Who long with wauts and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav ? n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thv doom ! 



250 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
PLOUGH. 

It is difficult to decide whether the Address to a Mouse, should 
be considered as serious or comic. Be that as it may, the poem 
is one of the happiest and most finished of his productions. If we 
smile at the " bickering bratlle" of this little animal, it is a smile 
of tenderness and pity. The descriptive part is admirable; the 
moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly out of the occa- 
siou; and in the conclusion there is a deep melancholy, a senti- 
ment of doubt and dread, that rises to the sublime. DR. currie. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'riu, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breaslie ! 
Thou needna start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which maks thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow mortal ! 



I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request; 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds eusuin, 

Baith snell an' keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell; 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 

Out-thro' thy cell. 






BURNS. 251 



That wee bit heap o' leaves an stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble. 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us naught but grief and pain. 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only touches thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my ee 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

The Farmer''^ Ingle of Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of 
this poem ; but after the plan was formed, Burns trusted entirely 
to his own powers for the execution. The Cotter's Saturday Night 
is tender and moral, it is solemn and devotional, and rises at length 
into a strain of moral grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
poetry has not surpassed. Such poetry is not to be estimated by 
the degree of pleasure it bestows; it sinks deeply into the heart, 
and is calculated, far beyond any other human means, for giving 
permanence to the scenes and characters it so exquisitely describes. 

DR. CURRIE. 



Although the Cotter, in the " Saturday Night," is an exact copy 
of my father in his manners, his family devotion, and exhortations, 
yet the other parts of the description do not apply to our family. 

GILBERT BURNS- 



252 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



The Cotter's Saturday Night is a noble and pathetic picture of 
human manners, mingled with a fine religious awe. It comes over 
the mind like a slow and solemn strain of music. The soul of the 
poet aspires from this scene of low-thoughted care, and reposes in 
trembling hops on " the bosom of its Father and its God." 

HAZLITT. 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichtering noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' maks him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. 



Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



BURNS. 253 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
' An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
An' 1 oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, mom an : night, 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappau youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What maks the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart- felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
* If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure s-pare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other's arms breath out the tender tale, 
' Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, uo relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 

A a 



254 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell,. 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the iogle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets weariug thin an' bare; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And 'Let us worship God !' he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name : 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian thrills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How He, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heav' 
-command. 



BURNS. 255 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, anil the husband prays : 
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society , yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole : 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ralway; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request — ■ 
That He who stiHs the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

' An honest man's the noblest work of God:' 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far hehind; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content 1 
And, Oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stauda wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

a2 



256 THE POETICAL REVIEW 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw. 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In namely, westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift. 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd : 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And kenna how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
' Mair spierna, nor fearna,' 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

To lie in kilns and bams at e'en, 

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress j 
Yet then content would mak us blest; 
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this no sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

What tho', like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods., 



BURNS. 257 



The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme tilPt, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae doae. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

it's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair: 
It's no in books ; its no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could mak us happy lang ; 
The heart aye's the part aye, 
That maks us right or wrang. 

Think ye that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ; 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell ! 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor mak our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu', for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel ; 

A3 



258 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

They mak us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'Il get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

( To say ought less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

O all ye pow'rs who rule above ; 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 
Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ; 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 



BURNS. 259 

THE TWA DOGS. 
A TALE. 

In this poem the poet's plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson of 
contentment on the lower classes of society, by showing that their 
superiors are neither much better nor happier than themselves ; 
and this he chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue between two 
dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an account of the persons 
and characters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named 
Ccesar, is a dog of condition, and though high-bred, full of conde- 
descension. The other, Luath, is a " ploughman's collie," but a cur 
of good heart and a sound understanding. Never were twa dogs so 
exquisitely delineated. Their gambols before they sit down to mora- 
lize, are described with an equal degree of happiness; and through 
the whole dialogue, the character, as well as the different condition 
of the two speakers, is kept in view. The dogs of Burns, except in 
their talent for moralizing, are downright dogs; and not like the 
horses of Swift, or the Hind and Panther of Dryden, men in 
the shape of brutes. It is this circumstance that heightens 
the humour of the dialogue. The twa dogs are constantly kept 
before our eyes, and the contrast between their form and charac- 
ter as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens the 
humour, and deepens the impression of the poet's satire. Though 
in this poem the chief excellence may be considered as humour, 
yet great talents are displayed in its composition ; the happiest 
powers of description, and the deepest insight into the human 
heart. dr. currie. 



The " Tale of the Twa Dogs" was composed after the resolution 
of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had had a dog which he 
called Luath, that was a great favourite. The dog had been 
killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the night before my 
father's death. Robert said to me, that he should like to confer 



260 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

such immortality as he could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and 
that he had a great mind to introduce something into the book 
under the title of "Stanzas to the Memory of a quadruped 
Friend :" but this plan was given up for the Tale as it now stands. 
Caesar was merely the creature of the poet's imagination, created 
for the purpose of holding chat with his favourite Luath. 

GILBERT BURNS. 



'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When weariug thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that werena thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His, hair, his size, bis mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient o' pride nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smidciie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'ersae duddie, 
But he wad stand, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne— Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 

* Cuchullin's dog in Ojsian'sFiugal, 






BURNS. 261 

His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff' d and snowkit ; 
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkiti 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' worry'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' damn weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel : 
His flunkies answer at the bell : 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter' d Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
And tho' the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't enough 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like. 
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smyrtrie o' wee duddie weans, 



262 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd it, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How hufPd, and cufPd, and disrespeckit ! 
Why, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, cur&e an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a' an' fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches : 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatign'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an faithfu' wives : 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 



BURNS. 263 



They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin, 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young aues rautin thro' the house,- 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
C decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying ay or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading : 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, 
To learn bon ton an' see the woiT. 



264 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mouy a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenaut, an' the Cotter ! 
Tor thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ! 
Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shooting o' a hare or moorcock, 
The ne'er a bit they're Ul to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ! 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't needna fear them. 



Why, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A eountry fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless : 
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places, 



BURNS. 265 



There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But bear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' ruu deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' wo a: an 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

The object of Burns's first attachment was a Highland girl, 
named Mary Campbell, who was his fellow reaper in the same 
harvest-field. She died very young ; and when Burns heard of 
her death, he was thrown into an ecstacy of suffering much be- 
yond what even his keen temperament was accustomed to feel. 
Nor does he seem ever to have forgotten her. His verses "To 
Mary in Heaven :" his invocation to the star that rose on the 
anniversary of her death ; his description of the landscape that 
was the scene of their day of love and parting vows, " where flowers 
sprang wanton to bepress'd;'' the whole luxury and exquisite 
Bb 



266 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

passion of that strain, evince that her image had survived many 
important changes in himself. t. campbbll. 



This celebrated poem was composed by Burns in September, 
1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the 
death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Cromek has 
thought fit to dress up the story with circumstances that did not 
occur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal 
recollection on this occasion, and whose recollections of all cir- 
cumstances connected with the history of her husband's poems, 
are represented as being remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what 
may at first appear a more prosaic edition of the history. Accord- 
ing to her, Burns spent that day, though labouring under cold, 
in the usual work of his harvest, and apparently in excellent 
spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to grow " very 
sad about something," and at length wandered out into the barn- 
yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed 
him, entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and 
to return to the fireside. On being again and again requested to 
do so, he always promised compliance — but still remained where 
he was, striding up and down slowly, and contemplating the sky, 
which was singularly clear and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found 
him stretched ou a mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beauti- 
ful planet "that shone like another moon;" and prevailed on 
him to come in. He immediately, on entering the house, called 
for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with all the 
ease of one copying from memory, the (following) sublime and 
pathetic verses. lockhart. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, . 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



BURNS. -26-; 

That sacred hour can I forget f 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where, by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ? 

Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past , 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought -we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning greeu ; 

The fragraut birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
Twin'd arn'rous round the raptur'd scene. 

The flowers spraug wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on ev'ry spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time bnttbe impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid r 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



HIGHLAND 3IARY. 

Burns says, — "After a pretty long trial of the most ardeut re- 
ciprocal affection, we (himself and Mary Campbell) met by ap- 
pointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by 
the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell be- 
fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange mat- 
ters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the 
close of the autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at 
Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with 
a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a 
r 9 



268 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

few days, before I could even hear of her illness." Mr. Cromek, 
speaking of the same " day of parting love," gives, though with- 
out mentioning his authority, some further particulars, which no 
one would willingly believe to be apocryphal. " This adieu," 
says that zealous inquirer into the details of Burns's story, "was 
performed with all those simple and striking ceremonials, which 
rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions, and to 
impose awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling 
brook — they laved their hands in the limpid stream — and, hold- 
ing a Bible between them, pronounced their vows to be faithful 
to each other. They parted — never to meet again." It is pro- 
per to add, that Mr. Cromek's story, which even Allan Cunning- 
ham was disposed to receive with suspicion, has recently been con- 
firmed very str ngly by the accidental discovery of a Bible pre- 
seuted by Burns to Mary Campbell, in the possession of her sister 
at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is inscribed, 
in Burns's band-writing, — "And ye shall not swear by my name 
falsely — I am the Lord. — Levit. xix. 12." On the second volume, 
— " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the 
Lord thine oath.— St. Matthew v. 33." And on a blank leaf of 
each — " Robert Burns, Mossgiel." 

LOCKHART. 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfald her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took my last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 



BURNS. 269 

WP mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust, 

That heart that loe'd me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



ON BURNS'S SONGS. 

The beauty and the variety of his songs, their tenderness and 
truth, their pathetic sweetness, their inextinguishable humour, 
their noble scorn of whatever is mean and vile, and their deep 
sympathy with the feelings of humble worth, are felt by all, and 
acknowledged by all. His original power, and his happy spirit, 
were only equalled by his remarkable gift of entering into the 
characters of our ancient songs, and the skill with which he abated 
their indelicacy, or eked out their imperfections. No one felt 
more fondly the presence of beauty, could express admiration, 
hope, or desire, in more glowing language, or sing of the calm 
joys of wedded love, or the unbounded rapture of single hearts 
and mutual affection, with equal force or felicity. All his songs 
are distinguished, more or less, by a happy carelessness, by a 
bounding elasticity of spirit, a singular and natural felicity of ex- 
pression, by the ardour of an enthusiastic heart, and the vigour of 
a clear understanding. He had the rare gift of expressing himself 
according to the rank and condition of mankind, the stateliness of 
matron pride, the modesty of virgin affection, the querulousness 
of old age, and the overflowing enthusiasm and vivacity of youth. 
b3 



270 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

His simplicity is the simplicity of strength : he is never mean, 
never weak, seldom vulgar, and but rarely coarse ; and his un- 
rivalled power of clothing his thoughts in happy and graceful 
language, never forsakes him. Capricious and wayward as his 
musings sometimes are, mingling the moving with the comic, and 
the sarcastic with the solemn, all he &ays is above the mark of 
other men — he sheds a redeeming light on all he touches; what- 
ever his eye glances on rises into life and beauty, and stands con- 
secrated and imperishable. His language is familiar, yet digni- 
fied ; careless, yet concise ; and he touches on the most perilous 
or ordinary themes with a skill so rare and felicitous, that good 
fortune seems to unite with good taste in carrying him over the 
mire of rudeness and vulgarity, in which, since his time, so maD y 
inferior spirits have wallowed. His love, his enthusiasm, his de- 
votion, his humour, his domestic happiness, and his homeliest 
joy, is everywhere characterised by a brief and elegant simplicity, 
at once easy to him and unattainable to others. No one has such 
power in adorning the humble, and dignifying the plain, and in 
extracting sweet and impassioned poetry from the daily occur- 
rences of human life : his simplicity is without childishness, his 
affection without exaggeration, and his sentiment without conceit. 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mamnnVs wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrily : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 






BURNS. 271 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 

And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 

He danc'dwi' Jeanie on the down; 
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace Was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en j 
So trembling, pure, was tender love, 

Within the breast o' bonuie Jean. 

And now she warks her mammie's walk, 

And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
Yet wistna what her ail might be, 

Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And didna joy blink in her ee, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 

Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
His cheek to her's he fondly prest, 

And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather-bells, 

And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 



272 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

*0 WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL ! 

were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 

1 coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
1 see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a- field, at hame, 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 

And aye 1 muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I'd love thee. 



FAIR ELIZA. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee ; 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 

This song was written in honour of Mrs. Burns, soon after marriage; 



BURNS. 271 



While the life beats in my bosom, 
Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 

Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 
Ae sweet smile ou me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fair}', 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his ee, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon* 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

WP the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 

A listening the liunet, aft wanders my Jean. . 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys^ 

And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 

What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 



FARE THEE WE EL. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-rung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 



274 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
But to see her was to love her; 
Love hut her and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest J 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure. 
Ae fond kiss and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-rung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY AT 
BANNOCKBURN. 

On the 27th of July, 1793, the Poet Burns and Mr. Syme left 
Dumfries to make an excursion through Galloway; they arrived 
at Kenmore in the evening, and spent three days there. Mr. 
Syme, in a letter to Dr. Currie, says — u We left Kenmore and 
went to Gatehouse . I took him the moor-road, where savage and 
desolate regions extended wide around. The sky was sympathetic 
with the wretchedness of the soil; it became lowering and dark. 
The hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, and the thunder 
rolled. The poet enjoyed the awful scene — he spoke not a word, 
but seemed rapt in meditation. — What do you think he was 
about ? He was charging the English army, along with Bruce, 
at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our 
ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next 
day he produced me the address of Bruce to his troops." 



BURNS. 275 

Why should we speak of Scots, wha hae wV Wallace bled ; siuce 
all know it, from the King to the meanest of his subjects ? This 
dithyrambic was composed on horseback ; in riding in the middle 
of tempests, over the wildest Galloway moor, in company with a 
Mr. Syme, who, observing the poet's looks, forbore to speak, — 
judiciously enough — for a man composing Bruce' s Address might 
be unsafe to trifle with. Doubtless this stern hymn was singing 
itself, as he formed it, through the soul of Burns : but to the 
material ear, it should be sung with the note of the whirlwind. So 
long as there is warm blood in the heart of Scotchman or man, it 
will move in fierce thrills under this war-ode, the best, we believe, 
that was ever written by any pen. 

Edinburgh Review, December, 1828. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Edward's power— 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa' ? 
Caledoniau ; on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ' 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free ' 



r i 



Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do or die 



276 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO, JOHN 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 






COWPER. -2i: 



WILLIAM COWPER, DIED 1800, AGED 69. 



ON COWPER'S POETRY. 

The great merit of this writer appears to us to consist in the 
boldness and originality of his composition, and in the fortunate 
audacity with which he has carried the dominion of poetry into 
regions that had been considered as inaccessable to her ambition . 
The gradual refinement of taste had, for nearly a century, been 
weakening the figure and original genius. Our poets had become 
timid and fastidious, and circumscribed themselves both in the 
choice and the management of their subjects, by the observance of 
a limited number of models, who were thought to have exhausted 
all the legitimate resources of the art. Cowper was one of the 
first who crossed this enchanted circle, who regained the natural 
liberty of invention, and walked abroad in the open field of ob- 
servation as freely as those by whom it was originally trodden ; he 
passed from the imitation of nature, and ventured boldly upon 
the representation of objects that had not been sanctified by the 
description of any of his predecessors. In the ordinary occupa- 
tions and duties of domestic life, and the consequences of modern 
manners, in the common scenery of a rustic situation, and the ob- 
vious contemplation of our public institutions, he has found a 
multitude of subjects for ridicule and reflection, for pathetic and 
picturesque description, for moral declamation, and devotional 
rapture, that would have been looked upon with disdain, or with 
despair, by most of our poetical adventurers. He took as wide a 
range in language, too, as in matter; and, shaking off the tawdry 
incumbrance of that poetical diction which had nearly reduced 
the art to the skilful collocation of a set of appropriated phrases, 
c c 



278 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

he made no scruple to set down in verse every expression that 
would have been admitted in prose, and to take advantage of all 
the varieties with which our language could supply him. 

But while, by the use of this double licence, he extended the 
sphere of poetical composition, and communicated a singular 
character of freedom, force, and originality, to his own perform- 
ances, it must not be dissembled, that the presumption which be- 
longs to most innovators, has betrayed him into many defects. In 
disdaining to follow the footsteps of others, he has frequently mis- 
taken the way, and has been exasperated, by their blunders, to 
rush into an opposite extreme, in his contempt for their scrupu- 
lous selection of topics, he has introduced some that are unques- 
tionably low and uninterestiug ; and in his zeal to strip off the 
tinsel and embroidery of their language, he has torn it (like Jack's 
coat in the Tale of a Tub) into terrible rents and beggarly tatters. 
He is a great master of English, and evidently values himself upon 
his skill and facility in the application of its rich and diversified 
idioms : but he has indulged himself in this exercise a little too 
fondly, and has degraded some grave and animated passages by 
the .unlucky introduction of expressions unquestionably too collo- 
quial and familiar. — It is impossible to say any thing of the de- 
fects of Cowper's writings, without taking notice of the occasional 
harshness and inelegance of his versification. From his corres- 
pondence, however, it appears that this was not with him the 
effect of negligence merely, but that he really imagined that a 
rough and incorrect line now and then had a very agreeable effect 
in a composition of any length. This prejudice, we believe, is as 
old as Cowley among English writers ; but we do not Jmow that it 
has of late received the sanction of any one poet of eminence. — 
With all these defects, however, Cowper will probably very Jong 
retain his popularity with the readers of English poetry. The 
great variety and truth of his descriptions; the minute and correct 
painting of those home-scenes, and private feelings with which 
every one is internally familiar; the sterling weight and sense of 
most of his observations, and, above all, the great appearance of 
facility with which every thing is executed, and the happy use he 



COWPER. 279 

has so ofteu made of the most common and ordinary language > 

all concur to stamp upon his poems the character of original 

genius, and remind us of the merits that have secured immortality 

to Shakespear. 

Edinburgh Review, April, 1803. 



ON COWPER AS A SATIRIST. 

Cowper's satire is sublime. There is not anywhere that we know 
of in the language such satires as his Table Talk, Progress of Error, 
Truth, Expostulation, Hope, Charity, Conversation, Retirement. 
Perhaps we ought to call those compositions by some other name, 
for they are full of almost all kinds of the noblest poetry. Never 
were the principles of the real wealth of nations more grandly 
■expounded, illustrated, and enforced — national honour, faith, 
freedom, patriotism, independence, religion, all sung in magnifi- 
cent strains, kindled alternately by the pride and indignation of a 
Briton, exulting in, or ashamed of, the land of saints and heroes. 
No want of individual portraits of foools, knaves, and even ruffians. 
The same man, who was well satisfied to sit day after day beside 
an elderly lady sewing caps and tippets, except when he was 
obliged to go and water the flowers, or fced the rabbits, rose up, 
when Poetry came upon him, sinewy and muscular as a mailed 
man dallying for a while with a two-edged sword, as if to try its 
weight and temper, when about to sheer down the Philistines. 
Cowper goes forth in his holy ire like a man inspired and commis- 
sioned. You see his soul glowing aud burning with fires kindled on 
the altar of religion. He comes strong from the study of the old 
prophets. And in some of his most magnificent marches, you think 
that you hear the bible transformed into another shape of poetry, 
the essence being the same; nor are the sacred strains profaned by 
being sounded to a lyre smote by such a hand— a haud uplifted 
doily, many times and oft, besides night and morn, in prayer, and 
ever " opeu as day to melting charity." How be sheds sudden 
day into the midnight darkness of London, lying bare with all her 
c2 



280 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

sins and iniquities ! The dark city quakes as she is suddenly 
brightened, and stands confessed in all her guilt, in which she 
dares not to glory, now that the hand of heaven seems stretched 
forth to avenge and destroy. There is nothing in Byron of such 
sustained majesty as Cowper's expostulation with this Queen of the 
Cities of the earth. — Even as a personal satirist — that is, the 
satirist of particular vices as they are exhibited in individual cha- 
racters whose portraits are unsparingly drawn, we know of nobody 
with whom Cowper may not take rank; while, as a general satirist 
of that mysterious compound of good and evil, Man, we know 
nobody who may take rank with him ; — for spleen, rancour, bile, 
in his loftiest moods, he has none,* — there is a profound melan- 
choly often mingling with his ire, for he knows that he too is of the 
same blind race, whom he upbraids with their folly and their 
wickedness ; he hates sin, but he loves and pities the sinner; — his 
is not the railing of sanctimonious pride, but as a Christian he 
feels he u does well to be angry;*' his morality is always pure 
and high, but his Religion is a power purer and higher far — its 
denunciations are altogether of a different nature, appealing to 
other fears, and other hopes, and other sanctions; and in the spirit 
of religion alone will any satire ever be poured from the lips of 
man, which, because of its influence on human happiness and vir- 
tue, may be named sacred, holy, divine, and enrolled among the 
other records of Immortal Song. 

Blackwood's Magazine, June, 1828. 



ON THE PERSONAL CHARACTER OF COWPER. 

The personal character of Cowper is easily estimated, from the 
writings he has left. He seems to have been chiefly remarkable 
for a certain feminine gentleness, and delicacy of character, that 

* There is no barbarous wit iu Cowper; not an inhuman joke in all his 
writings. His satire lias a whip of scorpions, but it is only wielded against 
villainy and false philosophy, when the cast igat ion of wickedness is mercy to 
mankind.—/. Montgomery.— [Ed."] 



COWPER. 281 

shrank back from all that was boisterous, presumptuous, or 
rude. His secluded life, and awful impressions of religiou, 
concurred in fixing upon his manners something of a saintly 
purity and decorum, and in cherishing that pensive and con- 
templative turn of mind, by which he was so much distinguished. 
His temper appears to have been yielding and benevolent; 
and though sufficiently steady and confident in the opinions 
he had adopted* he was very little inclined, in general, to 
force them upon the conviction of others. The warmth of his 
religious zeal made an occasional exception : but the habitual 
temper of his mind was toleration and indulgence ; and it would 
be difficult, perhaps, to name a satirical and popular author so 
entirely free from jealousy and fastidiousness, or so much disposed 
to show the. most liberal and impartial favour to the merit of 
others in literature, in politics, and in the virtues and accomplish- 
ments of social life. No angry or uneasy passions seem at any 
time to have found a place in his bosom ; and being incapable of 
malevolence himself, he probably passed through life, without 
having once excited that feeling in the breast of another. 

Edinburgh Review, April, 1803. 



ON THE MORALITY OF COWPER 5 S POETRY. 

In the morality of his poems, Cowper is honourably distinguished 
from most of his brethren. Our poets have too often deviated 
into an incorrect system of morals, coldly delivered ; a smooth, 
polished, filed-down Christianity; a medium system, between the 
religion of the Gospel and the heathen philosophy, and intended 
apparently to accommodate the two. There is nothing to comfort 
or guide us, no satisfying centre on which to fix our desires ; no 
line is drawn between good and evil ; we wander on amid a waste 
of feelings sublimated to effeminacy, desires raised beyond the 
possibility of gratification, and passions indulged till their indul- 
gence seems almost a necessary of life. We rise with heated 
minds, and feel that something still is wanting. In Cowper, on 
c3 



282 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

the contrary, all is reality ; there is no doubt, no vagueness-of opj- 
Dion ; the only satisfactory object on which our affections can be 
fixed, is distinctly and fully pointed ont; the afflicted are con- 
soled, the ignorant enlightened. A perfect line is drawn between 
truth and error. The heart is enlisted on the side of religion ; 
every precept is just, every motive is efficacious. Sensible that 
every vice is connected with the rest; that the voluptuous will 
become hard-hearted, and the unthinking licentious ; he aims his 
shafts at all : and as Gospel truth is the base of morality, it is the 
ground work of his precepts. 

Quarterly Review, Oct. 1816. 



THE SOPHIST. 

There is much of the full distinctness of Theophrastus, and of 
the nervous and concise spirit of La Bruyere, in Cowper's piece 
entitled M Conversation," with a cast of humour superadded, which 
is peculiarly English, and not to be found out of England. No- 
where have the sophist, the dubious man, whose evidence, 

" For want of prominence and just relief, 
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief," — 

the solemn fop, an oracle behind an empty cask — the sedentary 
weaver of long tales — the emphatic speaker, 

" who dearly loves to' oppose, 
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose," — 

nowhere have these characters, and all the most prominent nui- 
sances of colloquial intercourse, together with the bashful man, 
who is a nuisance to himself, been more happily delineated. 

T. CAMPBELL. 



COWPER. 283 

Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there are, 
And make colloquial happiness your care, 
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
A duel in the form of a debate. 
The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords, 
Decide no question with their tedious length, 
For opposition gives opinion strength, 
Divert the champions prodigal of breath, 
And put the peaceably disposed to death. 

thwart me not, sir Soph, at every turn, 
Nor carp at every flaw you may discern, 
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 

1 am not surely always in the wrong; 
'Tis hard if all is false that I advance, 

A fool must now and then be right by chance. 

Not that all freedom of dissent I blame ; 

No — there I grant the privilege I claim. 

A disputable point is no man's ground ; 

Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. 

Discourse may want an animated — No, 

To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 

But still remember, if you mean to please, 

To press your point with modesty and ease. 

The mark, at which my juster aim I take, 

Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 

Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 

Knots and impediments make something hitch : 

Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain, 

Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; 

The wrangler rather than accord with you, 

Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. 

Vociferated logic kills me quite, 

A noisy man is always in the right — 

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 

Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, 

And when I hope his blunders are all out, 

Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt ! 



CHARACTER OF DUBIOUS, 

Dubious is such a scrupulous good man — 
Yes — you may catch him tripping, if you can. 
He would not with a peremptory tone, 
Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 



284 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

With hesitation admirably slow, 

He humbly hopes, presumes it may be so. 

His evidence, if he were call'd by law 

To swear to some enormity he saw, 

For want of prominence and just relief, 

Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. 

Through constant dread of giving truth offence, 

He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 

Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not, 

What he remembers seems to have forgot j 

His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, 

Centring at last in having none at all. 

Yet though he tease and balk your listening ear, 

He makes one usefnl point exceeding clear j 

Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme 

A sceptic in philosophy may seem, 

Reduced to practice, his beloved rule 

Would only prove him a consummate fool ; 

Useless alike in him both brain and speech, 

Fate having placed all truth above his reach, 

His ambiguities his total sum, 

He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumbi 



NUISANCES OF COLLOQUIAL INTERCOURSE. 

The' emphatic speaker dearly loves to' oppose, 

In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 

As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz, 

Touch' d with a magnet, had attracted his. 

His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large, 

Proves after all a windgun's airy charge, 

An extract of his diary — no more, 

A tasteless journal of the day before; 

He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain. 

Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stepp'd home again, 

Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk 

With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk. 

I interrupt him with a sudden bow, 

Adieu, dear sir, lest you should loose it now. 

I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
A fine puss gentleman that's all perfume ; 
The sight's enough — no need to smell a beau — 
Who thrusts his nose into a rareeshow ? 



COWPER. 285 

His odoriferous attempts to please 
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees j 
But we that make no honey, though we sting, 
Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 
'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'oVresort, 
What makes some sick, and others a- la-mort, 
An argument of cogence, we may say, 
Why such a one should keep himself away. 

A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, 
Quite as absurd, though not so light as he : 
A shallow brain behind a serious mask, 
An oracle within an empty cask. 
The solemn fop : significant and budge ; 
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge ; 
He says but little, and that little said 
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. 
His wit invites you by his looks to come, 
But when you knock it never is at home ; 
'Tislikea parcel sent you by the stage, 
Some handsome present, as your hopes presage ; 
'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove 
An absent friend's fidelity and love ; 
But, when unpack'd, your disappointment groans, 
To find it stuff' d with brickbats, earth, and stones. 

Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, 
In making known how oft they have been sick, 
And give us in recitals of disease 
A doctor's trouble, but without the fees; 
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, 
How an emetic or cathartic sped ; 
Nothing is slightly touch'd, much less forgot ; 
Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot. 
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill. 
Victorious seem'd, and now the doctor's skill : 
And now — alas, for unforeseen mishaps ! 
They put on a damp nightcap and relapse ; 
They thought they must have died, they were so bad ; 
Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. 

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, 
You always do too little or too much : 
You speak with iife, in hopes to entertain, 
Your elevated voice goes through the brain ; 
You fall at once into a lower key, 
That's worse — the drone-pipe of an humble bee. 
The southern sash admits too strong a light, 
You rise and drop the cur tain — now 'tis night. 



286 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

He shakes with cold — you stir the fire and strive 
To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ; 
Withsoal — that's just the sort he would not wish. 
He takes what he at first professed to loathe, 
And in due time feeds heartily on both; 
Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown, 
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
Himself should work that wonder — if he cau — 
Alas ! his efforts double his distress, 
He likes yours little, and hi> own still less. 
Thus always teasing others, always teased, 
His ouly pleasure is — to be displeased. 



BASHFULNESS. 

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain 

Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, 

And bear the marks upon a blushing face 

Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace. 

Our sensibilities are so acute, 

The fear of being silent makes us mute. 

We sometimes think we could a speech produce 

Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose ; 

But, being tried, it dies upon the lip, 

Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip : 

Our wasted oil un profitably burns, 

Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. 

Few Frenchmen of this evil have complaiu'd ; 

It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd 

By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, 

To fear each other, fearing none beside. 

The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, 

Self-searching with an introverted eye, 

Conceal'd within an unsuspected part, 

The vainest corner of our own vain heart : 

For ever aiming at the World's esteem, 

Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; 

In other eyes our talents rarely shown, 

Become at length so splendid in our own, 

We dare not risk them into public view, 

Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. 



COWPER, 287 



THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 

Cowper's poetry often seems, indeed it too often is, ordinary and 
conventional ; but there is no author since Drydeu, more purely 
English in his diction, nor since Pope, more elegant and compact 
in composition when he pleaded to be so. He has an affluence of 
terms always at command, but he rarely selects them with much 
pains, or lavishes them in prodigality of ornament ; he can never 
be suspected of poverty, though he seldom displays riches. In the 
following specimen we have a proof of consummate skill in com- 
bining words and images, and making both express as much mean- 
ing, in as small compass as our tongue itself can afford ; especially 
in the lines respecting the minutest wonders of creation, where 
the verse becomes an intellectual microscope, through which we 
see the objects with as much accuracy and distinctness, as the op- 
tical instrument itself could present them ; but without that ineffa- 
ble horror and shrinking, with which some people gaze through 
the latter, on the magnified limbs of animaleulae, converted into 
" Gorgons, Hydras, and chimeras dire." J. Montgomery. 

How sweet to muse upon his skill display'd 

(Infinite skill) in all that he has made ! 

To trace in Nature's most minute design 

The signature and stamp of power diviue, 

Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease, 

Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, 

The shapely limb and lubricated joint, 

Within the small dimensions of a point, 

Muscle aud nerve miraculously spun, 

His mighty work, w r ho speaks and it is done, 

The' invisible in things scarce seen reveal'd, 

To whom an atom is an ample field ; 

To wonder at a thousand insect forms, 

These hatch'd, aud those resuscitated worms, 

New life oidain'd and brighter scenes to share, 

Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, 

Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and size, 

More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; 

With helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn'd, 

r I he mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, 

Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, 

Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth : 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Then with a glance of fancy to survey, 

Far as the faculty can stretch away, 

Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command 

From urns, that never fail, through every land : 

This like a deluge with impetuous force, 

Those winding modestly a silent course ; 

The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; 

Seas on which every nation spread their sails ; 

The sun, a world whence other worlds drink light, 

The crescent moon, the diadem of night: 

Stars countless, each in his appointed place, 

Fast anchorM in the deep abyss of space — 

At such a sight to catch the poet's flame, 

And with a rapture like his own exclaim, 

These are thy glorious works, thou Source of good, 

How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 

Thine, and. upheld by thy paternal care, 

This universal frame, thus wondrous fair ; 

Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought 

Adored and praised in all that thou hast wrought. 

Absorb'd in that immensity I see, 

I shrink abased, and yet aspire to thee : 

Instruct me, guide me to that heavenly day 

Thy words more clearly than thy works display ; 

That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine, 

I may resemble thee and call thee mine. 



REMARKS ON THE TASK. 

" The Task'' is a poem of singular construction, consisting of 
excursions of thought, in which the successive topics are no more 
necessarily connected, than the successive objects of natural scenery, 
occurring on walks in various directions, which might be inter- 
changed, altered, omitted, or others entirely different substituted. 
The chief art of the poet to make materials so diverse, and fre- 
quently so anomalous, harmoniously combine, is perceptible in the 
quiet and apparently natural transitions from one strain to ano- 
ther, by some obvious associations, in which the reader instantly 
acquiesces, and forgets what he has left behind, in looking at what 
is before him ; or some sudden affinity, not at all anticipated, 
which pleasantly surprises when discovered, and reconciles him at 



COWPER. 289 

once to the new theme. Any man accustomed to ruminate, and 
at the same time, to note external objects by the way, whatever 
they are, mean or magnificent — men, animals, trees, sounds, mo- 
tions, colours — need only ramble half a-dozen miles, letting his 
ideas take their own course ; — then, at the close, if he will minutely 
retrace his cross-musings, and set them down on paper, he will 
find an argument for a new book, of The Task, sufficiently rich 
and pregnant for a genius like Cowper's to work up with propor- 
tionate effect. In truth, nothing can be more natural than the 
plan of The Task, heterogeneous as it appears at first ; for the 
mind feels no incongruity in discursive contemplation, whereas all 
concatenated reasoning or discourse is palpably artificial. The 
charm of this poem is the reality of every thiDg in it. The cha- 
racters are living ones, the landscapes are local, the sentiments 
are those of conversation, and all that pleased, transported, awed, 
or saddened in the perusal, seems to have arisen out of actual cir- 
cumstances on the spot. j. Montgomery. 



COUNTRY SCENE DESCRIBED. 

The fiat country where Cowper resided certainly exhibited none 
of those wilder graces of nature, which he had sufficient genius to 
have delineated ; and yet there are perhaps few romantic descrip- 
tions of rocks, precipices, and torrents, which we should prefer to 
the calm English character and familiar repose of the following 
landscape. It is in the finest manner of Cowper, and unites all 
his accustomed fidelity and distinctness with a softness and deli- 
cacy, which are not always to be found in his specimens of the 
picturesque. — The whole scene is so defined, that one longs to see 
it transferred to painting. t. campbell. 

How oft upon yon eminence our pace 
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, 
While Admiration, feeding at the eye, 

Dd 



290 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

And still unsated, dwell'd upou the scene, 

Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd . 

The distant plough slow moving, and beside 

His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, 

The sturdy swain diminished to a boy! 

Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain 

Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 

Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 

Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 

Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite elms, 

That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; 

While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, 

That as with molten glass, inlays the vale, 

The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; 

Displaying on its varied side the grace 

Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, 

Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells 

Just undulates upon the listening ear, 

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. 



LONDON. 

But though true worth and virtue in the mild 
And genial soil of cultivated life 
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, 
Yet not in cities oft : in proud, and gay, 
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow, 
As to a common and most noisome sewer, 
The dregs and feculence of every land. 
In cities, foul example on most minds 
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds, 
In gross and pamper'd cities, sloth and lust, 
And wantonness, and gluttonous excess. 
In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, 
Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught 
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there 
Beyond the' achievement of successful flight. 
I do confess them nurseries of the arts, 
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams 
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye 
Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd 
The fairest capital of all the world, 
By riot and incontinence the worst. 
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes 



COWPER. 291 

A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
All her reflected features. Bacon there 
Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 
Nor does the chisel occupy alone 
The powers of Sculpture, but the style as much ; 
Each province of her art her equal care. 
With nice incision of her guided steel 
She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 
So steril with what charms soe'er she will, 
The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. 
Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, 
With which she gazes at yon burning disk 
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ? 
In London: where her implements exact, 
With which she calculates, computes, and scans, 
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
Measures an atom, and now girds a world ? 
In London : where has commerce such a mart, 
So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, 
As London — opulent, enlarged, and still 
Increasing London ? Babylon of old 
Not more the glory of the Earth than she, 
A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. 

She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, 
That so much beauty would do well to purge ; 
And show this queen of cities, that so fair, 
May yet be foul ; so witty, yet not wise. 
It is not seemly, nor of good report, 
That she is slack in discipline ; more prompt 
To' avenge than to prevent the breach of law : 
That she is rigid in denouncing death 
On petty robbers, and indulges life, 
And liberty, and oft-times honour too, 
To peculators of the public gold : 
That thieves at home must hang; but he that puts 
Into his overgorged and bloated purse 
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, 
That, through profane and infidel contempt 
Of holy writ, she has presumed to' annul 
And abrogate, as roundly as she may, 
The total ordinance and will of God; 
Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, 
And centring all authority in modes 
And customs of her otvn, till sabbath rites 
Have dwindled into uninspected forms, 
And knees and hassocks are well nigh divorced. 

d2 



292 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, 
Checker'd with all complexions of mankind, 
And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
Much that I love, and more that I admire, 
And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair, 
That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I can laugh, 
And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, 
Feel wrath and pity, when 1 think on thee ! 
Ten righteous would have saved a city once, 
And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee — 
That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
And therefore more obnoxious at this hour, 
Than Sodom in her day had power to be, 
For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain. 



REFLECTIONS ON WAR AND SLAVERY. 

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 

Some boundless contiguity of shade, 

Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 

Of unsuccessful or successful war, 

Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd, 

My soul is sick, with every day's report 

Of wrong and outrage, with which Earth is fill'd. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 

It does not feel for man : the natural bond 

Of brotherhood issever'd as the flax, 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 

Not colour'd like his own; and having power 

To' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 

Dooms and devotes him as a lawful prey. 

Lands intersected by a narrow frith 

Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 

Make enemies of nations, who had else 

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 

Thus man devote" his brother, and destroys ; 

And, worse than all, and most to be deplored 

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 

With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart 

Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 

And having human feelings, does not blush, 

And hang his head, to think himself a man t 



COWPER. 293 

! would not have a slave to till my ground, 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth, 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 

No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave, 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 

We have no slaves at home — Then why abroad ? 

And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 

That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 

Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 

Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 

They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 

That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 

And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 

And let it circulate through every vein 

Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's power 

Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 



THE PHILOSOPHY THAT STOPS AT SECONDARY 
CAUSES REPROVED. 

The frequency and poignancy of the contempt with which 
Cowper alludes to philosophy, (even natural and experimental,) 
both in The Task, and his other argumentative pieces, must 
sound in many ears illiberal, and would indeed be so, were not his 
sarcasm and invectives aimed solely at those who look for every 
thing in nature but God, and, whatsoever else they find in her, 
take special care not to find Him. j. Montgomery. 

Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd 
In all the good and ill that checker life ! 
Resolving all event?, with their effects 
And manifold results, into the will 
And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
The least of our concerns (since from the least 
The greatest oft originate) ; could chance 
Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 

d3 



294 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Contingenee might alarm him, and disturb 

The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 

This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed 

In Nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 

And, having found his instrument, forgets, 

Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 

Denies the power that wields it. God proclaim* 

His hot displeasure against foolish men, 

That live an atheist life : involves the Heavens 

In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, 

And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 

Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin,. 

And putrify the breath of blooming Health. 

He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 

Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips, 

And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines 

And desolates a nation at a blast. 

Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells 

Of homogeneal and discordant springs 

And principles ; of causes how they work 

By necessary laws their sure effects; 

Of action and reaction : he has found 

The source of the disease that Nature feels, 

And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 

Thou fool ! will thy discovery of the cause 

Suspend the' effect, or heal it ? Has not God 

Still wrought by means since first he made the world 

And did he not of old employ his means 

To drown it ? What is his creation less 

Than a capacious reservoir of means 

Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 

Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of him, 

Or ask of whomsover he has taught ; 

And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 



A MISTAKE CONCERNING THE COURSE OF 
NATURE CORRECTED. 

Some say that in the origin of things, 

When all creation started into birth, 

The infant elements received a law, 

From which they swerve not since. That under force 

Of that controling ordinance they move, 

And need not his immediate hand, who first 

Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. 



COWPER. 295 

Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God 

The' encumbrance of his own concerns, and spare 

The great artificer of all that moves 

The stress of a continual act, the pain 

Of unremitted vigilance and care, 

As too laborious and severe a task. 

So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, 

To span omnipotence, and measure might, 

That knows no measure, by the scanty rule 

And standard of his own, that is to-day, 

And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. 

But how should matter occupy a charge, 

Dull as it is, and satisfy a law 

So vast in its demands, unless impell'd 

To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, 

And under pressure of some conscious cause ? 

The Lord of all, himself through all diffused, 

Sustains, and is the life of all that lives. 

Nature is but a name for an effect, 

Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire, 

By which the mighty process is maintain' d, 

Who sleeps not, is not weary ; in whose sight 

Slow circling ages are as transient days; 

Whose work is without labour ; whose designs 

No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts ; 

And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. 

Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, 

With self taught rites, and under various names, 

Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 

And Flora, and Vertumnus ; peopling earth 

With tutelary goddesses and gods, 

That were not; and commending as they would 

To each some province, garden, field, or grove. 

But all are under one. One spirit — His, 

Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, 

Rules universal Nature. Not a flower 

But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 

Of his unrival'd pencil. He inspires 

Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 

And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 

In grains as countless as the seaside sands, 

The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 

Happy who walks with him ! whom what he finds 

Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, 

Of what he views of beautiful or grand 

In Nature, from the broad majestic oak 

To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, 

Prompts with remembrance of a present God. 



296 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



APOSTROPHE TO ENGLAND. 

England, with all thy faults i love thee still- 

My country ! and while yet a nook is left, 

Where English minds and manners may be found, 

Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime 

Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 

With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 

I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 

And fields without a flower, for warmer France 

With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 

Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 

To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime 

Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 

Upon thy foes, was never meant my task : 

But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 

Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 

As any thunderer there. And I can feel 

Thy follies too ; and with a just disdain 

Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 

Reflect dishonour on the land I love. 



DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 

Cowper is one of the few poets, who have indulged neither in 
descriptions nor acknowledgments of the passion of love ; but 
there is no poet, who has given us a finer conception of the amenity 
of female influence. Of all the verses that have been ever devoted 
to f he subject of domestic happiness, those in his Winter Evening,* 
at the opening of the fourth book of the Task, are the most 
beautiful. In perusing that sceue of " intimate delights," "fire- 
side enjoyments," and " home-born happiuess," we seem to re- 
cover a part of the forgotten value of existence, when we recognize 
the means of its blessedness so widely dispensed, and so cheaply 
attainable, and find them susceptible of description at once so 
enchanting and so faithful. t. Campbell. 

* Such an evening, indeed, has seldom been spent, " in prose or rhyme,'' 
within the compass of a book ; but thousands and tens of thousands of de- 
lighted readers have enjoyed it over again at their own firesides, and mil- 
lions, in ages to come, will, each in turn, be the imaginary guests in this 
happy parlour. — J. Montgomery.— [Ed J 



COWPER. 297 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,. 

That with its wearisome but needful length 

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — 

He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 

With spatter'dboot, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks; 

News from all nations lumbering at his back. 

True to his charge, the close pack'd load behind, 

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 

Is to conduct it to the destined ion ; 

And, having dropp'd the' expected bag, pass on. 

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 

Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief 

Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 

To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 

Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 

Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 

With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks 

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, 

Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 

Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 

His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 

But O the' important budget ! usher'd in 

With such heart-shaking music, who can say 

What art- its tidings ? have our troops awaked ? 

Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, 

Snore to the nrurmurs of the' Atlantic wave ? 

Is India free ! and does she wear her plumed 

Andjewel'd turban with a smile of peace, 

Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 

The popular harangue, the tart reply, 

The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 

And the loud laugh — I long to know them all ; 

I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, 

And give them voice and utterance once again. 

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
Not such his evening, who with shining face 
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
And bored with elbow points through both his sides, 
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: 
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, 
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles 



298 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

This folio of four pages, happy work ! 

Which not e'en critics criticise ; that holds 

Inquisitive Attention, while I read, 

Fast hound in chains of silence, which the fair, 

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break > 

What is it, but a map of busy life, 

Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? 

Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, 

That tempts ambition. On the summit see 

The seals of office glitter in his eyes ; 

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them ! At his heels, 

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 

And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, 

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 

Here rills of oily eloquence in soft 

Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 

The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved, 

To' engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, 

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, 

However trivial all that he conceives. 

Swept bashfulness! it claims at least this praise ; 

The dearth of information and good sense, 

That it foretells us, always comes to pass. 

Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 

There forests of no meaning spread the page, 

In which all comprehension wanders lost ; 

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there 

With merry descants on a nation's woes. 

The rest appears a wilderness of strange 

But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks, 

And lilies for the brows of faded age, 

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 

Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets, 

Nectarious essences, Olympian dews, 

Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, 

iEtherial journeys, submarine exploits, 

And Katterfelto, with his hair on end 

At his own wonders, wondering for his breath 

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 

To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 

Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 

To hear the roar she sends through all her gates 

At a safe distance, where the dying sound 

Falls a soft murmur on the' uninjured ear. 

Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 

The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 

To some secure and more thau mortal height, 

That liberates and exempts me from them all. 

It turns, submitted to my view, turns round 

With all its generations ; I behold 



COWPER. 299 

The tumult, and am still. The sound of war 
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride 
And avarice that make man a wolf to man ; 
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, 
By which he speaks the language of his heart, 
Aud sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 



THE EFFECT OF BELLS HEARD AT A DISTANCE. 

" The sympathy of souls with sounds," to which attention is 
called by the village bells, must touch to the quick all 
who have souls, and have heard sounds that awakened their most 
secret emotions. After the meditation which follows, and which 
is so natural, that it seems rather the spontaneous reflection of 
our own mind, than poured into it through melodious verse, the 
reader is suddenly reminded of the Poet at his side, when the 
1 atter takes up his wonted parable, and describes the scenery of 
" The Winter Walk at Noon," unexpectedly recurring to the 
original cause of the precediug rumination, in three lines, wherein 
the ideas of sound and sight, music and picture, are inimitably 
blended : — 

" Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 

Aud through the trees I view th' embattled tower, 

Whence all the music " 

*. 

Who at this pause, does not stand still, in imagination, to hearken 
to the bells, look out before him for the chu*ch, and perceive, 
through his inmost spirit, 

" The soothing influence of the wafted strains?" 

J. MONTGOMERY 

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased 
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave ; 
Some chord in unison with what we hear 
Is touoh'd within us, and the heart replies 



300 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 



How soft the music of those village bells, 

Falling at intervals upon the ear 

In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 

Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 

Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 

With easy force it opens all the cells 

Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard 

A kindred melody, the scene recurs, 

And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 

Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 

That in a few short moments I retrace 

(As in a map the voyager his course) 

The windings of my way through many years. 

Shortasin retrospect the journey seems, 

It seem'd not always short ; the rugged path, 

And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, 

Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. 

Yet feeling present evils, while the past 

Faintly impress the mind or not at all, 

How readily we wish time spent revoked, 

That we might try the ground again, where once 

(Through inexperience, as we now perceive), 

We miss'd that happiness we might have found ! 

Some friend is gone, perhaps, his son's best friend, 

A father, whose authority, in show 

When most severe, and mustering all its force, 

Was but the graver countenance of love ; 

Whose favour like the clouds of spring might lour, 

And utter now and then an awful voice, 

But had a blessing in its darkest frown, 

Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. 

We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand 

That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured 

By every gilded folly, we renounced 

His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent 

That converse, which we now in vain regret. 

How gladly would the man recall to life 

The boy's neglected sire ! a mother too, 

That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, 

Might he demand them at the gates of death. 

Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed 

The playful humour; he could now endure 

(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears), 

And feel a parent's presence no restraint. 

But not to understand a treasure's worth, 

Till time has stolen away the slighted good, 

Is cause of half the poverty we feel, 

And makes the World the wilderness it is. 

The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, 

And seeking grace to' improve the prize they hold, 

Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 



COWPER. 301 

The night was winter in its roughest mood ; 
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
The dazzling splendour of the sceue below. 
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 
And through the trees I view the' embattled tower, 
Whence all the music. I again perceive 
The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
And settle in soft musings as I tread 
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade. 
The roof, though moveable through all its length 
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 
And, intercepting in their silent fall 
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd : 
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, 
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 
May give a useful lesson to the head, 
And Learning wiser grow without his b >oks. 



LIBERTY. 

'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flower 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
Except what wisdom lays on evil men, 
Is evil : hurts the faculties, impedes 
Their progress in the road of science; blinds 
The eyesight of Discovery ; and begets 
In those that suffer it a sordid mind 
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit 
To be the tenant of man's noble form. 
Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, 
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed 

e e 



302 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

By public exigence, till annual food 

Fails for the craving hunger of the state, 

Thee I account still happy, and the chief 

Among the nations, seeing thou art free ; 

My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rude, 

Replete with vapours, and disposes much 

All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine : 

Yet being free I love thee : for the sake 

Of that one feature can be well content, 

Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art. 

To seek no sublunary rest beside. 

But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure 

Chains no where patiently : and chains at home 5 

Where I am free by birthright, not at all. 

But there is yet a liberty, unsung 
By poets, and by senators unpraised, 
Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers 
Of Earth and Hell confederate take away : 
A liberty, which persecution, fraud, 
Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind ; 
Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 
'Tis libeity of heart derived from Heaven, 
Bought with his blood, who gave it to mankind; 
And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 
By the' unimpeachable and awful oath 
And promise of a God. His other gifts 
All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them his, 
And are august ; but this transcends them all. 






THE CHRISTIAN FREEMAN. 

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain, 
That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, 
Can wind around him, but he casts it off, 
With as much ease as Samson his green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of nature, and though poor perhaps, compared 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scenery all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the vallies his, 
And the resplendent rivers. His to' enjoy 
With a propriety that none can feel, 
But who, with filial confidence inspired. 



COWPER. 303 

Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye. 

And smiling say — My Father made them all!* 

Are they not his by a peculiar right, 

And by an emphasis of interest his, 

Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, 

Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 

With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love, 

That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world 

So clothed with beauty for rebellious man ! 

Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 

The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 

In senseless riot; but ye will not find 

In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, 

A liberty like his, who unimpeach'd 

Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, 

Appropriates Nature as his Father's work, 

And has a richer use of yours than you. 

He /is indeed a freeman. Free by birth 

Of no mean city ; plann'd or ere the hills 

Were built, the fountains opeu'd, or the sea 

With all his roaring multitude of waves. 

His freedom is the same in every state ; 

And no condition of this changeful life, 

So manifold in cares, whose every day 

Brings its own evil with it, makes it less : 

For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain, 

Nor penury can cripple or confine. 

No nook so narrow but he spreads them there 

With ease, and is at large. The' oppressor holds 

His body bound; but knows not what a range 

His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 

And that to bind him is a vain attempt 

Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. 



" I could spend whole days, and moon-light nights, in feeding upon a 
lovely prospect ! My eyes driuk the rivers as they flow. If every human 
being upon earth, could think for one quarter of an hour, as I have done for 
many years, there might perhaps be many miserable men among them, but 
not an unawakened one could be found, from the arctic to the antarctic 
circle. At present, the difference between them and me is greatly to their 
advautage. I delight in baubles, and know them to be so ; for, rested in, 
and viewed, without a reference to their Author, what is the earth, what are 
the planets, what is the sun itself, but a bauble ? Better for a man never to 
have seen them or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid and uncon- 
scious of what he beholds, than not to be able to say, " The Maker of all 
these wonders is my friend V'—Cowper.—[Ed.'] 



E 2 



304 



THE POETICAL REVIEW 



ACQUAINTANCE WITH GOD NECESSARY TO 
THE ENJOYMENT OF HIS WORKS. 



Acquaint thyself with God, if them wouldst taste 

His works. Admitted once to his embrace, 

Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before : 

Thine eye shall be instructed ; and thine heart 

Made pure shall relish, with divine delight 

Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. 

Brutes graze the mountain top, with faces prone 

And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 

It yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow, 

Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread 

Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away 

Erom inland regions to the distant main. 

Man views it and admires ; but rests content 

With what he views. The landscape has his praise, 

But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'd 

The Paradise he sees ; he finds it such, 

And, such well pleas'd to find it, asks no more. 

Not so the mind that has been touched from Heaven, 

And in the school of sacred wisdom taught, 

To read his wonders, in whose thought the world, 

Fair as it is, existed ere it was. 

Nor for its own sake merely, but for his 

Much more, who fashion'd it he gives it praise ; 

Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought, 

To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once 

Its only just proprietor in Him. 

The soul that sees him or receives sublimed 

New faculties, or learns at least to' employ 

More worthily the powers she own'd before, 

Discerns in all thiugs what, with stupid gaze 

Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, 

A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms 

Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ; 

The unambiguous footsteps of the God, 

Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, 

And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. 

Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds, 

With those fair ministers of light to man, 

That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, 

Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they 

With which Heaven rang, when every star, in haste 

To gratulate the new created Earth, 

Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God 

Shouted for joy. — Tell me, ye shining hosts, 






COWPER. 305 

That navigate a sea that knows no storms, 

Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, 

If from your elevation, whence ye view 

Distinctly scenes invisible to man, 

And systems of whose birth no tidings yet 

Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race 

Favour'd as ours ; transgressors from the womb, 

And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, 

And to possess a brighter heaven than yours? 

As one, who, long detain'd on foreign shores, 

Pants to return, and when he sees afar 

His country's weather-bleach'd and batterd rocks, 

From the green wave emerging, darts an eye 

Radiant with joy towards the happy land ; 

So I with animated hopes behold, 

And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, 

That show like beacons in the blue abyss, 

Ordain'd to guide the' embodied spirit home 

From toilsome life to never ending rest. 

Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires, 

That give assurance of their own success, 

And that, infused from Heaven, must thither tend. 

So reads he Nature, whom the lamp of truth 
Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word ! 
Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost, 
With intellects bemazed in endless doubt, 
But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built 
With means, that were not till by thee employ'd, 
Worlds, that had never been hadst thou in strength 
Been less, or less benevolent than strong. 
They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power 
And goodness infinite, but speak in ears 
That hear not or receive not their report. 
In vain thy creatures testify of thee, 
Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed 
A teaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine, 
That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, 
And with the boon gives talents for its use. 
Till thou art heard, imaginations vain 
Possess the heart, and fables false as Hell; 
Yet, deem'd oracular, lure down to death 
The uninform'd and heedless souls of men. 
We give to chauce, blind chance, ourselves as blind, 
The glory of thy work ; which yet appears 
Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, 
Challenging human scrutiny, and proved 
Then skilful most when most severely judged. 
But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign' st: 
Thy Providence forbids that fickle power 

e3 



306 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

(If power she be, that works but to confound), 

To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. 

Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can 

Instruction, and inventing to ourselves 

Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that sleep, 

Or disregard our follies, or that sit 

Amused spectators of this bustling stage. 

Thee we reject, unable to abide 

Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure, 

Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, 

For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. 

Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, 

Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven 

Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 

A voice is heard, that mortal ears hear not, 

Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of song — 

A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works; 

Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, 

And adds his rapture to the general praise. 

In that bless'd moment Nature, throwing wide 

Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 

The author of her beauties, who, retired 

Behind his own creation, works unseen 

By the impure, and hears his power denied. 

Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 

Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 

From thee departing, they are lost, and rove 

At random, without honour, hope, or peace. 

From thee is all that sooths the life of man, 

His high endeavour, and his glad success, 

His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 

But O thou bounteous Giver of all good, 

Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! 

Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; 

And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 



ON COWPER'S MINOR POEMS. 

Occasional Verses are often the most indifferent compositions of 
great poets. Cowper had a peculiar talent for these; a playful 
fancy, as well as a certain recondite ingenuity of thought, unex- 
pectedly working itself out into forms the most amusing and curi- 
ous. With these he possessed a sovereign command of words, 




COWPER. 307 

though he did not always select them well ; partly through wilful 
carelessness, and partly because his ear was indifferently refined? 
not from want of delicacy of sense, but from neglect of culture, 
in that portion of life when, by other poets, the gratification of 
that nice organ is most studied. Many of his minor pieces, parti- 
cularly the courtly ones, are the best of the species in the language. 
They have more grace and nature than Prior's, seldom offend 
against (rood taste, and never against good manners. Though he 
does not uniformly overcome the petty difficulties of these, there 
is always some sally of humour, some gay surprise, or subtle allu- 
sion, that redeems the least successful from the disgrace of failure. 
Among the serious ones, the Verses supposed to have been written 
by Alexander Selkirk, those On receiving his Mother's Picture, 
and My Mary, are, by the common consent of all readers, the 
most permanently affecting. They might be repeated for ever 
without tiring ; and the world never will be weary of repeating 
them. J. MONTGOMERY. 



.TO MARY, 

Mrs. Unwin does seem in real truth, to have no will left on earth 
but for his (Cowper's) good, and literally no will but his. How 
she has supported herself as she has done, the constant attendance 
day and night which she has gone through for thirteen years, is to 
me, I confess incredible; and injustice to her, I must say, she 
does it all with an ease that relieves you from any apprehension 
of its being a state of suffering. lady hesketh. 



The lines to Mary, written after Mrs. Unwin's illness, are the 
most touchingly pathetic that ever the pure spirit of tenderness 
and affection dictated. They were addressed to a helpless para- 
lytic, and very old woman. They sprung from neither youth, 



308 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

beauty, passion, nor the softening recollection of any early charm, 
not even from the sympathies of kindred blood, yet they breathe 
theetherial essence of the love that is indestructible. 

J.JOHNSTONE. 



If you wish to see the full force of the simple pathetic, raised by 
no other art than the selection of little circumstances, which could 
only have suggested themselves to an exquisitely sensible heart? 
you must turn to the piece addressed to the beloved companion of 
so many years, his Mary. All the studied elegies and monodies 
that were ever written are poor in effect to this effusion. 

DR. AIKIN. 



The twentieth year is well nigh pass'd, 

Since first our sky was overcast, 

Ah would that this might be the last ! 



Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see thee daily weaker grow — 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 



Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 



For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 



My Mary ! 



My Mary ! 



My Mary! 



My Mary ! 



But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 
And all thy threads with magic art 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary ! 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 

Like language utter'd in a dream ; 

Yet me they charm, whatever the theme, 

My Mary ! 



COWPER. 309 



Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 



For could I view nor them nor thee, 
"What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 



Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine, 



Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
That now at every step thou movest 
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, 



My Mary 



My Mary ! 



My Mary 



My Mary 



And still to love, though press'd with ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary ! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 

My Mary ! 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary I 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 
OUT OF NORFOLK. 

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM. 

Cowper's lines on his mother's picture display remarkably his 
powers of pathos. Such a stiain of mellowed and manly sonow, 



310 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

such affectionate reminiscences of childhood unmixed with trifling, 
such a union of regret with piety, is seldom to be found in any 
language. 

Quarterly Review, October, 1828. 



I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's kindness in giving me the 
only picture of my Mother that is to be found, I suppose, in all 
the world. I would rather possess it than the richest jewel in the 
British crown, for I loved her with an affection that her death, 
fifty-two years since, has not in the least abated. I remember 
her, too, young as I was when she died, well enough to know that 
it is a very exact resemblance of her, and as such it is to me in- 
valuable. 

Cowper to Lady Hesketh. 



The world could not have furnished 3 ! ou with a present so ac- 
ceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me, 
I received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation 
of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, 
had the dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed 
it, and hung it where it is the last object that I see at night, and, 
of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. 

Cowper to Mrs. Bodham. 



I wrote my picture verses not without tears, therefore I presume 
it may be that they are felt by others. cowper. 

O that those lips had lauguage ! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since 1 heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !' 



COWPER. 311 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who biJd'sl me honour with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was — where thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learn'd at last submission to my lot, 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
'Tis now become a history little known, 



312 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 

Short lived possession ! hut the record fair 

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 

A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 

That thou mighst know me safe and warmly laid ; 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 

The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; 

All this, and more endearing still than all, 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 

That humour interposed too often makes ; 

All this still legible in memory's page, 

And still to be so to my latest age, 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 

Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I prick'd them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) 
Shoots into port at some well haven'd isle, 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar*,'' 

• Gartli. 









cowper. 

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost. 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet O the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to' have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to sooth me left 



VERSES 



SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS 
SOLITARY ABODE ON THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. 

This person, whose adventures gave rise to a well-known histo- 
"rical romance, Robinson Crusoe, was born at Largo, in Fife, in 1676, 
and was bred a seaman. He went from England, in 1703, in the 
capacity of a sailing master of a small vessel, called the Cinque - 
Ports, Charles Pickering, Captain, burden 90 tons, with 26 guns 
and 68 men ; and iu September, the same year, sailed from Cork, 
in company with another ship of 26 guns and 120 men, called the 
St. George, commanded by that famous navigator William 
Dampier, intending to cruize, against the Spaniards in the South 
Sea, on the coast of Brazil. Pickering died, and was succeeded 
in his command by his lieutenant, Thomas Stradling. They pro- 
Ff 



314 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

ceeded on their voyage round Cape Horn to the island of Juan 
Fernandez, whence they were driven by the appearance of two 
French ships, of 36 guns each, and left five of Stradling's men 
there on shore, who were taken off by the French. Hence they 
sailed to the coast of America, where Dampier and Stradling quar- 
relled, and separated by agreement, on the 19th of May, 1704. 
!n September following, Stradling came again to the island of 
Juan Fernandez, where Selkirk and his Captain had a difference, 
which, with the circumstance of the ship's being leaky and in very 
bad condition, induced him to determine on staying there alone; 
but when his companions were about to depart, his resolution was 
shaken, and he desired to be taken on board again. The Captain, 
however, refused to admit him, and he was obliged to remain, 
having nothing but his clothes, bedding, a gun, and a small quan- 
tity of powder and ball ; a hatchet, knife, and kettle; his books, 
and mathematical and nautical instruments. He kept up his 
spirits tolerably till he saw the vessel put off, when, as he after- 
wards related, his heart yearned within him, and melted at parting 
with his comrades and all human society at once. Such is the 
rooted love we bear mankind, ruffians as too many of them are. 

Thus left sole monarch of the island, with plenty of the neces- 
saries of life, he found himself in a situation hardly supportable. 
He had fish, goats' flesh, with turnips and other vegetables ; yet 
he grew dejected, languid, and melancholy, to such a degree as 
to be scarcely able to refrain from doing violence to himself. 
Eighteen months passed before he could, by reasoning, reading 
his Bible, and study, be thoroughly reconciled to his condition. 
At length he grew happy, employing himself in decorating his 
huts, chasing the goats, which he equalled in speed, aud scarcely 
ever failed of catching. Though he constantly performed his de- 
votion at stated hours, and read aloud ; yet when he was taken off 
the island, his language, from disuse of conversation, was become 
scarcely intelligible. In this solitude he continued four years and 
four months, when, on the 2nd of February 1709, he saw two ships 
come into the bay, and knew them to be English. He immediately 
lighted a fire as a signal, and on their coming on shore, found they 



COWPER. 315 

were the Duke, Captain Rogers, and the Duchess, Captain Court- 
nay, two privateers from Bristol. Dampier, who was pilot on 
board the Duke, and knew Selkirk very well, told Captain Rogers, 
that, when ou board the Cinque Ports, he was the best seaman on 
board of that vessel: upon which Captain Rogers appointed him 
master's mate of the Duke. After a fortnight's stay at Juan Fer- 
nandez, the ships proceeded on their cruise against the Spaniards, 
plundered a town on the coast of Pern, took a Manilla ship off 
California, and returned by way of the East Indies to England, 
where they arrived the first of October, 1711 ; Selkirk having been 
absent eight years, more than half of which he had spent in the 
island. rev. john platts. 



1 am monarch of all I survey, 

My right there is none to dispute ; 

From the centre all round to the sea, 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone, 
Never hear the sweet music of speech ; 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain 

My form with indifference see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man, 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon mao, 
O, had I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth, 
Might learn from the wisdom of age, 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 
Resides in that heavenly word ! 

More precious than silver and gold, 
Or all that this earth can afford . 

f2 



316 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

But the sound of the church-going bell 
These valleys and rocks never heard, 

Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
Or smiled when a Sabbath appear' d. 

Ye winds that have made me your sporty 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
Q tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight,. 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 

The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place, 

And mercy, encouraging thought \ 
Gives even affliction a grace, 

Aud reconciles man to his lot. 



BYRON. 317 



GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON, DIED 
1824, AGED 36. 



ON THE PRIVATE LIFE OF AUTHORS. 

It certainly would be, we think, for the benefit of literature, were 
the private life of authors less exposed to the public eye ; although 
we rejoice to say, we could point out some, who have no reason to 
shrink from the severest scrutiny, or to dread the narrowest in- 
spection — whose hearts are unsullied, and whose thoughts are 
pure, and whose lives are commentaries on the doctrines incul- 
cated in their writings. But, alas ! the mischief and misfortunes 
is, all are not so. Often has envy too substantial grounds on 
which to calumniate ! Too often has malignant pride a favour- 
able opportunity of exposing the foibles of genius to ridicule, and 
its weaknesses to assault, audits crimes to abhorrence ; till the 
sun of intellectual grandeur is obscured by the clouds of moral de- 
pravity, and the darkness becomes more apparent, from succeed- 
ing to meridian sunshine. Poetry is above every other department 
of general literature — inviting, and fair, and fascinating to the 
youthful mind ; which, accordingly, decks out the poet in all the 
splendid trappings of intellectual grandeur, and all the chastened 
graces of moral worth. He is tbe Hesper among the stars in the 
hemisphere of Imagination ; but he proves himself, too often, to 
be only the Pallas in the planetary system of Understanding. — 
After being imbued with the sentiments that seemed to lift us 
above ourselves, and link us with superior orders of" intelligence, 
and made us proud in the elevation of our common nature, we 
f3 



318 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

are brought down to the level of social life, and called upon to 
sympathize with human infirmity. It is on this account, that 
those writers, who have passed their days in seclusion, and with- 
drawn themselves from the bustle of the world to the more imme- 
diate contemplation of nature, and the endearing circle of selected 
friendship, have retained some portion of the exalted estimation, 
which the reader has formed of them, from the perusal of their 
works. Nor is it to be doubted, that our opinions are frequently 
much influenced on this head ; for, we are naturally anxious to 
learn something of the fate of a being to whom we are indebted 
for so much gratification, and to whose sentiments we bow with sub- 
missive admiration. We crave, and inquire, and feel anxious, 
and uneasy, till this sensation is gratified ; and yet we are, in 
nine cases out of ten, disappointed when it is so. Some portion 
of our reverence for the ancients is unquestionably owing to the 
oblivion in which the events of their private lives are shrouded. 
They are visible to us only " at their pride of place ;" as they 
descend, the clouds intervene, and hide them from our view. 
They are familiar to us as poets, and historians, and philosophers ; 
not as subjects and citizens, parents and husbands. Could we 
see Virgil, and Cicero, and Livy, in the ordinary affairs of their 
lives, we should probably be necessitated to come to the humilia- 
ting conclusion, that the ancients were somethiug like ourselves, 
and that mankind have been pretty much alike in all ages. Alas ! 
for the doctrine of human perfection. 

Blackwood's Magazine, November, 1820, 



ON THE PERSONAL CHARACTER OF LORD 
BYRON. 

Lord Byron was noted for a kind of poetical misanthropy, but it 
existed more in the imagination of the public than in reality. — In 
his writings he certainly dwelt with pleasure on a character which 
had somehow or other laid hold of his fancy, and consequently 



BYRON. 319 

under this character he has appeared to the public ; namely, that 
of a proud and scornful being, who pretended to be disgusted with 
his species, because he himself had been guilty of all sorts of 
crimes against society, and who made a point of dividing his time 
between cursing and blessing, murderiug and saving, robbiug and 
giving, hating and loving, just as the wind of his humour blew. 
This penchant for outlaws and pirates might naturally enough 
flow from his own character, and the circumstances of his life, 
without there being the slightest resemblance between the poet and 
the corsair. He had a kind and generous heart, and gloried in 
a splendid piece of benevolence; that is to say, the dearest exer- 
cise of power to him was in unexpectedly changing the state of an- 
other from misery to happiness. But he was in a great error with 
respect to the reward which he thought awaited him. He reckoned 
upon a large return of gratitude and devotion, and was not con- 
tent with the instant recompense which charity receives. On this 
mistake were founded most of his charges against human nature ; 
but his feelings true to nature, and not obeying the false direction 
of his prejudices and erroneous opinions, still made him love his 
kind with an ardour which removed him as far as possible from 
misauthropy. Anothercause of Lord Byron's misanthropical turn 
of writing was his high respect for himself. When he observed 
another man neglecting his wants for the sake of some petty grati- 
fication of his own, it appeared to him very base in the individual, 
and a general charge against all mankind — he was positively filled 
with indignation. He mentions somewhere in his works with be- 
coming scorn, that one of his relatives accompanied a female 
friend to a milliner's, in preference to coming to take leave of 
him when he was going abroad. The fact is, no one ever loved 
his fellow man more than Lord Byron ; he stood in continual need 
of his sympathy, his respect, his affection, his attentions, and he 
was proportionally disgusted and depressed when they were found 
wanting ; this was foolish enough, but he was not much of a rea- 
soner on these points — he was a poet. 

London Magazine, October, ] 824. 



:V>0 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

LORD BYRON'S POETICAL CHARACTER. 

It would be worse than idle to endeavour to shadow out the linea- 
ments of that mind, which, exhibiting itself in dark and perturb- 
ed grandeur, has established a stronger and wider sway over the 
passious of men, than any other poetical intellect of modern times. 
We feel as if there were a kind of absurdity in criticising the power 
that hunies us along with it like a whirlwind. When standing 
within the magic circle, and in the immediate presence of the ma- 
gician, we think not upon his art itself, but yield ourselves up to 
its wonder-working influence. We have no wish to speculate on 
the causes which awoke and stirred up all the profoundest feel- 
ings and energies of our souls : the deep pathos, the stormy pas- 
sion, has heen enjoyed or suffered ; and, in the exaltation or 
prostration of our nature, we own the power of the poet to be di- 
vine, — and, with a satisfied and unquestioning delight, deliver 
ourselves up to his gentle fascination, or his irresistible dominion. 
We do not say that Byron stands above criticism, but that criti- 
cism seems to be altogether foreign to the nature and to the pur- 
poses of his genius. It is impossible to speak of his poetry with- 
out also speaking of himself, morally, as a man ; and this who 
shall dare to do, who has had even a feeble glimpse into the 
haunted darkness of the human soul ? In his poetry, more than 
any other man's, there is felt a continual presence of himself — 
there is everlasting self-representation or self-reference ; and per- 
haps that, which to cold and unimpassioned judgment might 
seem the essential fault of his poetry, constitutes its real excel- 
lence, and gives it power, sovereign and despotical. Strictly 
speaking, and according to the rules by which great poems have 
been builded, it cannot be said that Byron has ever created a great 
poem. He has celebrated no mighty exploit, or event, or revo- 
lution in the destinies of mankind ; nor brought before us one 
majestic portion of the history of our species, in which, as in a 
course perfect and complete, the mind of man has been seen to 
run a career of power and glory. He has brought forward from 
the darkness of past times, no shining spectres — no immortal 



BYRON. 321 

ghosts. One Figure alone is seen stalking through the city ana 
through the solitude — over the earth and over the sea — and the.',; 
Figure, stern, melancholy, and majestic, is still no other thaii 
himself. "We have no hesitation in saying, that Byron's creations 
are not so much poems, as they are glorious manifestations of a 
poet's mind, all irresistibly tending towards poetry. Having in 
himself deep sense of beauty — deeper passions than probably any 
other great poet ever had — and aspiring conceptions of power, the 
poetry in which he expresses himself must be full of vivid portrai- 
ture of beauty, deep spirit of passion, and daring suggestions of 
power. There are things in his poetry — strong and irregular bursts 
of power, beyond the strength of the strongest. At times he 
seems possessed and over-mastered by an inspiration. A spirit is 
then in him that works at will, and it is a spirit that in its perfect 
grandeur seems to have visited none other of the children of men, 
Blackwood? s Magazine, May, 1818. 



MIDNIGHT SCENE, AT THE SIEGE OF 
CORINTH. 

'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright; 
"Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
And turn'd to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook. 
But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
The banners droop'd along their stave.-, 
And, as they fell around thein furling, 
Ahove them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was unbroke, 
Save where the watch his signal spoke 



322 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
And echo answer'd from the hill, 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
And take a long unmeasured tone, 
To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er ; 
The watch was set, the night-round made, 
All mandates issued and obey'd : 
'Tis but another anxious night, 
His pains the morrow may requite 
With all revenge and love can pay, 
In guerdon for their long delay. 
Few hours remain, am) he hath need 
Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day. 
But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be ? 
Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

And thro' this night, as on he wander'd. 
And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him, 
Who cheer' d the band, and wav'd the sword, 
A traitor in a turbau'd horde ; 
And led them to the lawless siege, 
Whose best success were sacrilege. 
Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd 



BYRON. 323 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, hut undying; 
The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 
The waters murmur' d of their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
Claim'd kiudred with their sacred clay ; 
Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
The meanest rill — the mightiest river 
Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
Despite of every yoke she bears, 
That laud is glory's still and theirs ! 
'Tis still a watch-word to the earth : — 
When man would do a deed of worth 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sauction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

Alp wander'd on, along the beach, 
Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
Of the leaguer' d wall ; but they saw him not, 
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Tho' he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
Tho' he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel, 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 
Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb ; 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, 
As it slipp'd thro' their jaws, when their edge grew dull, 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When the) r scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
And Alp kne.v, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 
The foremost of these were the best of his baud : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 



324 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,* 

All the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 

Which had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey : 

But he seiz'd on his share of a steed that lay, 

Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
Scorch' d with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 
For fame is there to say who bleeds, 
Abd honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
All regarding man as their prey, 
All rejoicing in his decay. 



THE FRENZY OF LOVE. 

Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
I wish'd but for a single tear, 
As something welcome, new, and dear : 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still, 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
I want no Paradise, but rest. 

" This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that Mahomet will draw 
them into Paradise by it. 



B YRON. 325 



'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 
I saw her; yes, she liv'd again; 
And shining in her white symar, 
As thro' yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now 1 gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 
Tomorrow's night shall be more dark : 
And I, before its rays appear, 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the fiual goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
Aud clasp her to my desperate heart j 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp, 
No heart that beats reply to mine, 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, chang'd so much, 
As meet my eve, yet mock my touch ? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish'd to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest, 
They shrink upon my lonely breast; 
Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright black eye- 
I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me wild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, aud from thine ocean cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave ; 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ' 



326 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

ON THE MJSANTHROPHY OF LORD BYRON'.S 
HEROES. 

All, or almost all, his heroes, have somewhat the attributes of 
Childe Harold: all, or almost all, have minds which seem at va- 
riance with their fortunes, and exhibit high and poignant feelings 
of pain and pleasure ; a keen sense of what is noble and honour- 
able, and an equally keen susceptibility of injustice or injury, un- 
der the garb of stoicism or contempt of mankind. The strength 
of early passion, and the glow of youthful feeling, are uniformly 
painted as chilled or subdued by a train of early imprudences or 
of darker guilt, and the sense of enjoyment tarnished, by too in- 
timate and experienced an acquaintance with the vanity of human 
wishes. These general attributes mark the stern features of all 
Lord Byron's heroes, from those which are shaded by the scalloped 
hat of the illustrious Pilgrim, to those which lurk under the turban 
of Alp, the Renegade. The public, ever anxious in curiosity or 
malignity to attach to fictitious characters real prototypes, were 
obstinate in declaring, that in these leading traits of character. 
Lord Byron copied from the individual features reflected in his 
own mirror. But we know enough, even of his private story to 
give our warrant that, though his youth may have shared somewhat 
too largely in the indiscretions of those left too early masters of 
their own actions and fortunes, falsehood and malice alone can 
impute to him any real cause for hopeless remorse or gloomy mis- 
anthropy.* To what, then, are we to ascribe the singular pecu- 
liarity which induced an author of such talent, and so well skilled 

* Lord Byron may have his faults— you may have your own, my good 
friend, but there is some difference between constitutional errors and evil 
intentions and propensities: it is harsh to ascribe to wicked motives what 
may be owing to temptations of circumstances, or the headlong impulse of 
passion. Even the worst habits should be charitably considered, for they 
are often the result of the slow, but irresistible force of nature, over the ar- 
tificial manners and discipline of society — the flowing stream that wastes 
away its embankments. We know not what sins the worst men have mas- 
tered, when we condemn them for the crime that subjects them to punish- 
ment. Man towards bis fellow man should be at least compassionate, for he 
can be no judge of the insti nets and impulses of action, he can only see effects. 
— Blackwood' s Magazine, August, 1821. — [Ed.] 



BYRON. 327 

in tracing the darker impressions which guilt and remorse leave 
on the human character, so frequently to affix features peculiar to 
himself to the robbers and corsairs which he sketched with a pencil 
as forcible as that of Salvator ? More than one answer may be 
returned to this question ; nor do we pretend to say which is best 
warranted by facts. The practice may arise from a temperament 
which radical and constitutional melancholy has, as in the case of 
Hamlet, predisposed to identify its owner with scenes of that deep 
and arousing interest which arises from the stings of conscience 
contending with the stubborn energy of pride, and delighting to 
be placed in supposed situations of guilt and danger, as some men 
love instinctively to tread the giddy edgeof a precipice, or, hold- 
ing by some frail twig, to stoop forward over the abyss into which 
the dark torrent discharges itself. Or it may be, that these dis- 
guises were assumed capriciously, as a man might chu?e the cloak, 
poignard, and dark lantern of a bravo, for his disguise at a mas- 
querade. Or feeling his own powers in painting the sombre and 
the horrible, Lord Byron assumed in his fervour the very semblance 
of the character he describes, like an actor who presents on the 
stage at once his own person and the tragic character with which 
for the time he is invested. Nor is it altogether incompatible 
with his character to believe that, in contempt of the criticisms 
which on this account had attended Childe Harold, he was deter- 
mined to shew to the public how little he was affected by them, 
and how effectually it was in his power to compel attention and 
respect, even when imparting a portion of his own likeness and 
his own peculiarities to pirates and outlaws. 

Quarterly Review, October , 1816. 



CHARACTER OF CONRAD. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 
In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 
Tho> his dark eye-brow shades a glance of lire 

g2 



THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height; 

Yet, in the whole, who paus'd to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Suu-burut his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in Avild profusiou veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 

Tho' smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, 

Still seems there something he would not have seen : 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefin'd ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close enquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye : 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once th' observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer 

That rais'd emotions both of rage and fear j 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought ! 
Love shows all chauges — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern' d aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen.. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye. 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loos'd to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glov. 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark— how that lone and blighted bosom sears 



BYRON. 329 

The scathing thought of execrated years, 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free? 

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 
His soul was chang'd, before his deeds had driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
And scorn' d the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that fear'd him dar'd not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 



AMBITION. 

There is a fire 

And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught, but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

This makes the madman who have made men mad 
By their contagion ,• Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs! One breast laid op n were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule. 

o3 



330 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Their breath is agitation, aud their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nurs'dand bigotted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to cairn twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

He who ascends to mountain tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above, the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 



ALBUERA. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess cries, 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,. 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise !" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore. 

Hark! — heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor sav'd your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death, 
The bale fires flash on high — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe : 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, aud nations feel the shock. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death- shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon : 






BYRON. 331 

Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done, 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 



By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war hounds rouse them from their lair. 
And gnash their faugs, loud yelling for their prey, 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share; 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high, 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies 
The shouts are Francs, Spain, Albion, Victory ; 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.* 

There shall they rot — Ambition's honour'd fools ! 
Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Yain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
With human hearts — to what? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 



" Byron's idea of man, in the abstract, is boundless aud magnificent; but 
of men, as individuals, be thinks with derision and contempt. Hence be is 
in one stanza a sublime moralist, elevated and transported by the dignity of 
human nature; in the next a paltry satirist, sneering at its meanness. It is 
this contrast between bis august conceptions of man, and bis contemptuous 
opinion of men, that much of the almost incomprehensible charm, and 
power, and enchantment of bis poetry exists. We feel ourselves alternately 
sunk and elevated, as if the baud of au invisible being bad command over 
us. At one time we are a little lower than the angels ; at another, but a 
little higher than the worms. We feel that our elevation and our disgrace 
are alike the lot of our nature ; and hence the Poetry of Byrou is read as 
a dark, but still a divine revelation. — Blackwood's Mag. July 1818.— [£"</.] 



332 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Oh, Albuera ! glorious field of grief ! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his slued, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. 



WATERLOO. 

We are invited to moralize with the Post on the plains of Water- 
loo. With some of his morality we can cordially sympathize : 
the harvest of death that was reaped on that fatal field makes the 
tear fall, and the heart ache, for those who were slain, and those 
who were bereaved. Triumph is merged in these touching recol-, 
lections : the growth of a new and smiling vegetation, silently ob- 
literating the traces of horror aud human suffering which were so 
lately inscribed upon the surface of that ensanguined plain, pro- 
duce in the mind a sort of chequered melancholy in which the 
fugitive shadows and shifting scenes of mortality weary the thoughts 
and spirits till they settle into the contemplation of the great ca- 
tastrophe, and final developement of man's being and God's provi- 
dence. These great changes and solemn events as they mingle 
with the past, and soften and melt into the retrospect, take on a 
mellowness of character and colouring, and appear through a me- 
dium of gloomy grandeur, which fits them for the sublime and 
moral purposes of poetry. The occasion has not been overlooked 
by Lord Byron ; a reflection or two of the kind to which we have 
alluded are richly and pleasingly expressed. — The sudden alarm 
of battle breaking in upon the revelry and dance and song of the 
night's carousal, the dreadful note of preparation that succeeds to 
the light intercourse of love and compliment, and the gay and jo- 
cund scene shifted with a sort of magical surprise to the bloody 
field of Waterloo, are subjects managed with considerable anima- 
tion, brilliance, and pathos. 

British Review, February, 1827. 



BYRON. 333 

Stop ! — for thy tread is ou an Empire's dust ! 
Au Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust: 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show r 
None; hut the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red raiu hath made the harvest grow ! 
And is this all the world has gained by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Yictory ! 

And Harold stands upon this place of sculls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
How in an hour the power that gave annuls, 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
Iu "pride of place"* here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain : 
He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain, 

There was a sound of revelry by nighty 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then. 
Her beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes that spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell; 
But hush ! hark ; a deep sound like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it : — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dauce ! let joy be unconfined ? 
No sleep 'till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ! 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier thau before ! 
Arm! Arm; it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ' 

Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone, with Death's prophetic ear : 



* A term of falconry, and meaus the highest pitch of flight. 
* On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball was given at 
Brussels. 



334 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

And then they smiled, because he deemed it near ; 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well, 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier; 
And roused the viiigeauce blood alone could quell; 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell-* 

Ah ! then aud there was hurrying to and fro ; 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise ot their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 

And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
The mustering squadron, aud the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war, 
And the deej) thunder peal on peal afar, 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum, 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! They come, they 
come !" 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fills the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald'sf fame rings in each clansman's ears : 

And Ardennes]: waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 

* This stanza regarding the Duke of Brunswick is very grand, even from 
its total unadornment. It is with t tie two or three stanzas which follow, 
only a versification of ihe common narratives; but here may well be applied 
a position of Johnson, that " where truth is sufficient to fill the mind, fiction 
is worse than useless." — Sir Egerton lirydijes. 

t Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, " the geDtle Lochiel' 
of the " forty-five." 

% The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the "Foiest oi 
Ardennes," immortalize 1 by Shakespear in " As You Like It." 



BYRON. 335 

Over the unreturned brave, —alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe,— in one red burial blent. 

Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song : 
And his was of the bravest and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young gallant 
Howard ? 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw arouud me the wild field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring, 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetful ness were mercy for their sake ; 
The Archangel's trump, not glory's must awake 
Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honoured, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 



336 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
The roof tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruined wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
The day drags through though storms keep out the sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on. 



REFLECTIONS BY THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 

Lord Byron describes, in a tone of great beauty and feeling, a 
night-scene witnessed on the Lake of Geneva; and each natural 
object, from the evening grasshopper to the stars, " the poetry of 
heaven," suggests the contemplation of the connection between 
the Creator and his works. The scene is varied by the " fierce 
and fair delight" of a thunder-storm, described in verse almost as 
vivid as its lightnings. — The " live thunder leaping among the 
rattling crags," the voice of mountains, as if shouting to each 
other, the plashing of the big rain, the gleaming of the wide lake, 
lighted like a phosphoric sea, present a picture of sublime terror, 
yet of enjoyment, often attempted, but never so well, certainly 
fiever better, brought out in poetry. 

Quarterly Review, October, 1816. 

Lake Leman woos me, with its crystal face 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look through, 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew, 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 

To fly from, need not be to hate mankind ; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 



BYRON. 537 

Deep ia its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the foot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 
'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,* 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture ; I can see 

Nothing to loathe in nature, 

when the soul can flee 

And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars ; mingle, and not in vain. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should 1 not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ; and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and wordly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wide world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring; 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction : once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so mov'd. 

* The colour of the Rhone, at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint which I 
have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean 
and Archipelago. 

h h 



},38 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Tt is the hush of night, and all between 

Thy margin and the mountain dusk, yet clear. 

Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 

Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 

Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,. 

Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; ou the ear 

Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more- 
He is an evening reveller, who makes 

His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 

At intervals, some bird from out the brakes, 

Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 

There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 

But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 

All silently their tears of love instil. 

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

All heaven and earth are still— though uot in sleep- 
But breathless as we grow when feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentred in a life intense, 
Where not a beam nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, when we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being tben doth melt 
And purifies from self; it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty ;— 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 

The sky is chang'd!— and such a change ! O night f* 

And storm, and darkness, ye are wonderous strong, 

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 

Of a dark eye in woman \ Far along, 

From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 

* The thunder-storm to Which these lines refer, occurred on the 16th of 
June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen among the Acroceraunian moun. 
tains of Chimari several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 



BYRON. 339 

Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tougue, 
And Jura auswers through her misty shroud 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

And this is in the night : — Most glorious night '. 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
Aud now again 'tis black — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its rnouutain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, —if I rest 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest f 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passion, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; 
But as it is, I live aud die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 

Such was the privilege ol this illustrious young lady, such the 
•charter annexed to her quality and virtue, that death appeared to 
consecrate her value, and inscribe upon the hearts of the people 
the lesson which her short life had afforded them. Upon no oc- 
casion which the world has yet witnessed has so numerous a por- 
tion of mankind united in one spontaneous expression of homage 
h2 



MO THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

to virtue — plain and christian virtue — humble, charitable, and! du- 
tiful. It is quite new in the moral world to see a great and mighty 
nation erect itself in an attitude of religious sorrow, under an in- 
fliction not touching their own doors, or alarming their personal 
or selfish fears; interesting indeed the finest sympathies of our 
nature, and perplexing the future with some apprehensions of pos- 
sible danger, but accompanied by none of those circumstances of 
terror which have often produced among the godless and heartless 
the fever of temporary devotion : it is new, and interesting, and 
edifying, and august, to behold a luxurious, prosperous, victorious 
people, brought to self- recollection and prayer, and a humble re- 
cognition of the divine wisdom of Providence, by a loss which, to 
feel it in all its bearings, requires both sensibility, and loyalty, 
and a spirit of sober reflection. — Our loss, indeed, has all the cha- 
racter of a personal misfortune. Something emphatically British 
distinguished the deportment of this amiable personage. Every 
man and woman of the laud has lost a relation : the tie was a do- 
mestic one.— Local affections, home delights, unstudied care, de- 
corous familiarity, hospitable intercourse with neighbours, and 
charity that came in contact with its object, however humble, or 
old, or poor, were the pledges of her future greatness, the earnest 
of a magnanimous reign and beneficent sway, secure in its natural 
titles to the homage of gratitude, and of the free subjection of the 
heart. Something so warm and womanly, something so natively 
noble, so much soul, so much reality, so much natural relish, and 
such heartiness of sentiment, have rarely been coupled with so 
many artificial accomplishments, or survived a culture so studious 
and elaborate. Her part, indeed, was difficult to sustain with all 
eyes upon her conduct : from this fiery ordeal, nevertheless, she 
came out blameless, not by management, or artifice, or study, but 
a conduct above display, and even superior to her great station, — 
by making the Bible her monitor, aud living in the cheerful dis- 
charge of the duties of an elevated christian. 

British Review, February, 1818. 



BYRON. 341 

Hark. 1 forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound : 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground. 
The gulph is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields uo relief. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou, 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy, 
Which fill'd th' imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 

Peasants bring forth in safety, — can it be, 
Oh ! thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those that weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year i the father of the dead 1 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
The bridal's fruit is ashes ; in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherds' eyes : 'twas but a meteor beam'd. 

Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate 
Which troubles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late. 

ii 3 



342 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there > 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast; 
It link'd th' electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 



DESCRIPTION OF AN ITALIAN EVENING. 

This description may seem fantastical or exaggerated to those 
who have never seen an Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a 
literal and hardly sufficient delineation of an evening in August 
contemplated along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira. 

Lord Byron. 

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue FriulPs mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be ; 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest I 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still, 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhsetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order; — gently flows 
The deep died Brenta, where their hues instil, 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day 
Dies like a dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new colour as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 



BYRON. 343 



GREECE. 



The magic name of Greece is always accompanied with emotions 
of admiration arid regret. Long have we contemplated that coun- 
try through the medium of her poets and historians, her philoso- 
phers and orators, and have thence learned, from our infancy, to 
glow at a name consecrated by every elegant and classic allusion. 
We have walked and reasoned with the sages of her academic 
groves ; we have followed her animated crowds to the scenes of 
forensic or theatrical eloquence ; we have paced her marble tem- 
ples, and felt all the powers of fancy, of thought, and of feeling, 
entranced by the splendid forms of architecture and sculpture, 
which have burst every moment upon the imagination. Every 
great idea, elevated sensation, even every imperfect reminiscence, 
has seemed to assume a local habitation, and a name. — Not a 
state, or city, or mountain, or river, can occur to the memory, 
without bringing with it the recollection of deeds and personages 
of heroic fame. It is a world of enchantments ; we forget ourselves 
and all around us, and seem inspired with new souls and new 
bodies, the moment we touch in idea this Elysiau ground, this land 
of ever-pleasing delights and fascinating associations. — At the name 
of Greece are awakened the loveliest ideas of beauty, the proudest 
conceptions of sublimity, the loftiest aspirations of liberty ; in a 
word, all that fires, or exalts, or expands the soul ; all that adds 
elasticity and ardour to mortal energies, and gives to the ordinary 
passions aud pursuits of men an aspect of poetical dignity and 
mental elevation. 

British Review, August, 1817. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great ! 
"Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilom did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from the tomb r 



344 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow,* 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Could'st thou forbode the dismal hour, which now 
Dims the green beauties of thuie Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idhy rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
From birth till death enslav'd : in word, in deed uninaun'c 

In all, save form alone, how chang'd ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew, 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their father's heritage ; 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor sorely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear the name defiled from slavery's mournful page. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who wnuld be free themselves must strike the blow ? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ; 
Will Gaul, or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, she may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But, not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
The glorious day is o'er but not thy years of shame. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou ! 
Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ! 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commiugliug slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough ; 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well recorded Worth ; 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; f 



* Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, was seized by 
Tbrasybuluw previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 

t Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed 
the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An 
immense cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will to the end of 
time. 



BYRON. 345 

Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave : 
Save o'er some warrior's half forgotten grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me perchance, to gaze, and sigh " Alas !" 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smil'd, 
And still its honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blythe bee his fragrant fortiess builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare : 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground : 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder, spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
'Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 



THE GREEK BARD'S SONG. 



The isles of Greece, the isles of Gn ece ! 

Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is &et. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 



346 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

The mountains look on Marathon — 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set where were they ? 

And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greeks a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled ! 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnaut of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, — " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come !" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the' ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal f 



BYRON. U: 



You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ve he meant them for a slave ? 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He serv'd — but serv'd Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ' 
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 

Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 

And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 

The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — ■ 
They have a king who buys and sells ; 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 

I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
But gazing on each glowing maid, 

My own the burning tear-drop laves, 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me siug and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 



348 THE POETICAL REVIEW 



THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ASSYRIANS. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And hh cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen . 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But thro' it there roll'd not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



LINES. 



Messolonghi, January lid, 1824. 
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. 

The last poem he wrote was produced upon his birth-day, not 
many weeks before he died. We consider it as one of the finest 
and most touching effusions of his noble genius. We think he 
who reads it, and can ever after bring himself to regard even the 



. 



BYRON. 349 

worst transgressions that have been charged against Lord Byron, 
with any feelings but those of humble sorrow and manly pity, is 
not deserving of the name of man. The deep and passionate strug- 
gles with the inferior elements of his nature (and ours) which it 
records — the lofty thirsting after purity — the heroic devotion of a 
soul "half weary of life, because unable to believe in its own powers 
to live up to what it so intensely felt to be, and so reverentially 
honoured as, the right — the whole picture of this mighty spirit, 
often darkened, but never sunk, often erring, but never ceasing to 

J see and to worship the beauty of virtue — the repentance of it, the 
anguish, the aspiration, almost stifled in despair, the whole of this 
is such a whole, that we are sure no man can read these solemn 
verses too often, and we recommend them for repetition, as the 

J best and most conclusive of all possible answers, whenever the 
name of Byron is insulted by those who permit themselves to 
forget nothing in his life and writings but the good. 

Blackwood's Magazine, February, 1825. 



'Tis time this heart should be unmov'd, 

Since others it has ceas'd to move ; 
Yet, though I cannot be belov'd, 

Still let me love. 

My days are in the yellow leaf, 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone, 
The worm, the canker, and the grief, 

Are mine alone. 

The fire that in my bosom preys, 

Is like to some volcanic isle, 
No torch is kindled at its blaze; — 

A funeral pile: 



The hopes, the fears, the jealous care, 

The' exalted portion of the pain, 
And power of love I cannot share, 

But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not here — it is not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul ; nor now- 
Where glory seals the hero's bier, 

Or binds his brow. 

i i 



350 THE POETICAL REVIEW. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 

Glory and Greece around us see ; 
The Spartan borne upon his shield 

Was not more free. 

Awake ! not Greece ! — she is awake ! — 
Awake my spirit ! — think thro' whom 
My life-blood tastes its parent lake — 

And then strike home 

I tread reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood — unto thee, 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret thy youth — why live ? 

The land of honourable death 
Is here — up to the field, and give 

Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best. 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 






GLOSSARY TO BURNS'S POEMS. 



A', all. 
Ae, one. 
Agley, wrong. 
Aiblins, perhaps. 
Amaist, almost. 
Ava', at all. 

Ba', ball. 

Bairns, children. 

Baws'nt, having a white stripe 

down the face. 
Beets, adds fuel to. 
Belyve, by and by. 
Ben, an inner-room, parlour, 
Ben Lomond, a noted mountain 

in Dumbartonshire. 
Beuks, books. The Devil's 

pictur'd beuks, cards. 
Bield, a shelter. 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 
Big, to build. 
Biggin, building. 
Billie, a young fellow. 
Birk, birch. 
Blate, bashful. 
Brae, the slope of a hill. 
Brattle, a short race, hurry. 
Braw, fine. 
Breckan, fern. 
Brent, smooth. 



Brock, a badger. 

Bum-clock, a humming beetle 

that flies in the summer 

evening. 
Burn, water, a rivulet. 
But, without. 
Byre, a cow-stable, a sheep-pen. 

Ca', call. 

Ca's, calls. 

Ca'the pleugh, drive the plough. 

Cannie, gentle. 

Cantie, cheerful. 

Cartes, cards. 

Chiels, young fellows. 

Chimla-lug, the fire-side. 

Claes, clothes. 

Coil, from Kyle, a district of 
Argyleshire ; so called, ac- 
cording to tradition, from 
Coil, or Coilus, a Pietish 
monarch. 

Collie, a country cur 

Coofs, blockheads. 

Cozie, snug 

Crackin, conversing. 

Cranreuch, the hoar-frost. 

Crouse, merry, cheerful. 



Daflin, merriment, foolishness. 



i2 



352 



GLOSSARY TO BURNS'S POEMS. 



Daft, giddy, foolish. 
Daimen-icker, an ear of corn 

now and then. 
Darg, day's work. 
Drumlie, muddy. 
Duddie, ragged. 
Dundee, Martyrs, Elgin, names 

of sacred melodies. 

Ee, the eye. 
Een, the eves. 
Eydent, diligent. 

Fain, happy. 
Fash, to trouble. 
Fasht, troubled. 
Fawsont, decent. 
Feg, a fig. 
Fell, keen. 
Ferlie, wonder. 

Fient haet, a petty oath of ne- 
gation. 
Fier, sound. 
Flichterin, fluttering. 
Flunkies, livery- servants. 
Foggage, after-grass. 
Forgathered, met. 
Fu', full. 

Gae, go. 

Gaed, went. 

Gang, go. 

Gars, makes. 

Gash, sagacious. 

Gaucie, large. 

Gaun, going. 

Gear, riches, goods of any kind. 

Geordie, a guinea. 

Glen, a dale, deep valley. 

Glinted, peeped. 

Gloaming, the twilight. 

Glowr, stare 

Gowan, the flower of the daisy, 

dandelion, &c. 
Grushie, thriving. 

Ha' bible, the great bible that 

lies in the hall. 
Ha' folk, hall folk, servants. 
Hae, have. 



Haffets, the temples, the sides 
of the head. 

Hafflins, partly. 

Hald, home. 

Hallan, a partition wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly, a 
seat of turf on the outside. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one 
with a .vhite face. 

Histie, dry. 

Hizzies, young women. 

Howkit, digged. 

Howkin, digging. 

Hurdies, the loins. 

Ilka, each, every. 

Indentin, making a bargain, or 

selling his vote for seven 

years. 
Ingle, fire, fire-place. 

Jauk, dally. 
Jo, a sweetheart. 

Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by 

a farmer. 
Kebbuck, cheese. Weel-hain'd 

kebbuck, well kept cheese. 
Keeks, peeps. 
Ken, to know. 
Kirn, the harvest supper. 
Knowe, a small round hillock. 
Kye, cows. 

Laithfu', sheepish. 

Lane, lone. Thy lane, thyself 

alone. 
Lap, leaped. 

Lave, the rest, the others. 
Lear, learning. 
Limmer, a kept mistress. 
Lint, flax. Sin' lint was i' the 

bell, Since flax was in 

flower. 
Lintwhite, a linnet. 
Loan, the place of milking. 
Loup, leap. 
Lugs, ears. 
Luntin, smoking. 
Lyart, gray. 



GLOSSARY TO BURNS'S POEMS. 



353 



Mair, more. 
Maim, must. 
Messin, a small dog. 
Moudiworts, moles. 

Naigies, horses. 
Nappy, ale. 

Ouie, any. 
Owre, over. 
Owsen, oxen. 

Pattle, a plough -staff. 

Pechan, the stomach. 

Pit, put. 

Platie, a saucer. 

Pleugh, a plough. 

Poiud, to seize ou cattle, or take 

the goods, for rent. 
Poortith, poverty. 

Ream, cream. 
Rew, repent, or hav 
Rin, run. 



Pity- 



run, iuij. 

Rowtiu, lowing. 



Sae, so. 

Sair, sore, hard. 

Sheugh, a ditch, trench, sluice. 

Sic, such. 

Smiddie, a smithy, cr smith's 

workshop. 
Smytrie, a numerous collection 

of small individuals. 
Snash, abuse. 
Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 
Snell, bitter. 
Suowkit, scented. 
Sonsie, engaging. 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a 

low whistle. 
Sowther, cemeut. 
Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
Stacher, stagger. 
Stechin, crammiug. 
Steeks, stitches. 
Steer, molest. 



Stents, dues of any kind. 

Stoure, dust, dust in motion. 

Stown, stolen. 

Stroan, to water. 

Sugh, the continued rushing 

noise of a strong wind. 
Swirl, curve. 
Syne, since, then. 

Tawted, having the hair matted 

together. 
Tent, heed. 
Tentie, cautious. 
Thack, thatch. Thack and rape, 

clothing necessaries. 
Thae, these. 
Thole, endure. 
Thrave, a shock of corn. 
TilPt, to it. 
Timmer, timber. 
Tint, lost. 
Touzie, shaggy. 
Tewmond, a twelvemonth. 
Trash trie, trash. 
Tryste, to make an appointment. 
Twal, twelve. 
Tyke, a dog. 

Unco, very, strange. 
Uncos, news. 

Wa', wall. 

Wa's, walls. 

Wad, would. 

Wales, selects. 

Wastrie, prodigality. 

Weans, children. 

Weet, rain, wetness. 

Westlin, West country. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whyles, sometimes. 

Wifie, an endearing term for 

wife. 
Win's, winds. 

Yont, beyond. 



Flatt & Todd, Printers, Courant Office, Sheffield. 



ERRATA. 

Page 24— last line but 3, for fuer, rend fur. 

56— for aged 53, read aged 52. 

57— last line but 13, for differing, read different. 
138 — fortieth line, for from, read when. 
211— last line but one, for breaths, read breathes. 
246 — fourth line, for unsettling, read unsetting. 
217 — seventh line, for misfortunes, lead misfortune. 



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